Redamancy
by seeleybooths
Summary: Redamancy (noun): the act of loving in return. A collection of Booth and Brennan one shots.
1. Work Out

**I have a ton of miscellaneous Booth and Brennan one shots sitting around, so I decided I should just upload them in chapters. Life has been so hectic lately for me, but I've really missed posting stuff. Hopefully, you guys will enjoy these stories!**

 **Without further ado, if I could have _one_ thing happen on Bones, this would be it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Bones (or this would have happened already).**

* * *

"Bones!" Booth called out from their bedroom. "Can you help me with something?"

Brennan spun on her heels and walked towards their room, somewhat confused. Booth, a man of action, never asked for help. Even if it killed him.

She walked through the bedroom's threshold and came face to face to Booth sitting on the edge of their bed, his skin bare with the exception of grey sweatpants and striped socks. His face was slightly slicked with sweat and he drew in a breath, his abdominal muscles contracting in the most pleasing way possible. Her eyes followed his abdomen up to his broad chest and shoulders. While she denied (more like lied about) her attraction towards Booth in the beginning days of their partnership, his shoulders always stood out to her. Muscled and considerably wider than his trim waist, they sat heavy on his midsection, the weight of war and murder outlining every curve. His physicality was impressive, she wouldn't deny that now. Before it was biological wants and needs, but seeing him sitting there, tanned and toned, she knew there would be no other man that could match Booth. He was hers, despite her babbles of people having no claim over others. That night when their warm lips finally met warmer skin in the midst of sorrows and a fallen friend, she knew she would never be able to let go.

Booth looked up, breaking her thoughts, his eyes bright. He rose up from where he was sitting and reached out to Brennan, his large hands skirting her small wrists.

Brennan swallowed. "What do you need help with? It looks like you're in the middle of something."

"I was getting a little tired. I need some… motivation." Booth's eyebrows quirked upwards.

"Oh! I've read several studies online about different ways to motivate yourself when working out. Many scientists say that music actually—" Brennan was cut off by Booth bringing a finger up to her mouth.

"Actually, I had another idea." He stepped back. "Lay on the ground."

"On the ground?" Brennan's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"You'll see what I mean in a second."

Still slightly mystified, Brennan laid down on the area rug in the middle of their room. Booth dropped down to his knees, his hips straddling her body. His hands rested around either side of her head.

"What are you doing?" Brennan breathed out.

"Getting antsy, are we?" He grinned cockily, his eyes glimmering with something that wasn't there before. He pushed himself off of his knees and onto the balls of his feet.

 _Oh_. He was going to do push ups. _Over her_. His mouth was just inches away, his abdomen begging to be touched. Brennan felt herself shiver.

Booth slowly went downwards, his biceps flexing under the weight of his body. Suddenly his mouth was centimeters away. Then millimeters. Then whatever measurement came next as her thoughts became incoherent under the hot press of his lips.

As soon as his lips came, they went, his body rising back up over hers. There was practically a gravitational pull as her right hand reached up to brush the muscular V above his waistband. Her pointer finger barely flicked the indentation before Booth grabbed her hand and pushed it back next to her head. He took his other hand and did the same thing, their fingers now intertwining.

"Only lips," he whispered as he dropped down again, his mouth brushing over her's with each syllable.

Brennan could barely blink, her senses ablaze with all things Booth. His brown eyes flared with amber, his hair tousled, his shoulders tightening and loosening with the roll of each muscle. His sweatpants were slowly starting to slip and eventually only clung onto his hip bones.

He eased down, his mouth missing her lips and clipping her earlobe instead.

"You know," he breathed, "I'm going commando."

Her cheeks burned red while his lips grazed over her jaw and pressed a smirk against her mouth. He rose back up, much more slowly, amusement etched into his features. He clearly was not tiring and the responses he was getting from her only seemed to give him more energy.

Salt and sweat and sandalwood plugged her nose in a hazy deliciousness. His palms sat heavy in her hands. Warm skin on even hotter hands, an itch to touch, to _feel_ residing in her fingertips. She never liked to relinquish control but with Booth, a simple glance could send her melting. His voice was lower now, tainted with invigorated breaths and a taste for something more.

"Booth," Brennan finally managed to say after his fiftieth push up. "Are you getting tired?"

"Nope." His tongue ghosted her bottom lip.

"Don't overwork yourself," her voice dropping an octave, "I have my own workout planned."

"Oh, really?" Booth murmured, his hands slowly letting go of Brennan's. "And what might that be?"

Her fingers found his abdomen, outlining each crevice. She smirked as she felt his body tremble under her finger light touch. Her hands made their way to the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers sweeping across the sensitive skin above the waistband.

" _Bones_."

"What happened to being patient?"

"What happened to 'only lips'?"

Brennan hummed. "Sometimes rules are meant to be broken."

She snaked her arms around his midsection and flipped him onto his back. She straddled his waist, her hands falling onto his stomach. His arms began to reach out for the hem of her t-shirt.

"This time we'll work out," her lip skating the edge of his ear, "my way."

Booth pulled her shirt over her head, eyes dark. "Teach me."

He was quite motivated after all.

* * *

 **It must be super obvious that I have the biggest crush on David.**

 **Reviews?**


	2. Best Everythings

**Don't get me wrong - I think Brennan and Angela have a great friendship. However, I've always thought of Booth and Brennan being the true best friends of the show. It's clear that Booth thinks of Brennan has his best friend, and it's so sweet.**

* * *

"So I'm your best friend?"

"Not if you don't want me to be."

Brennan watches her husband lying in bed, his hair mussed from flopping down on a pillow. His brown eyes look at her with careful consideration.

"But if some stranger went up to you and asked you who were best friend was…"

"I would say you."

"But I'm your wife." Brennan presses on. "We're in a sexual relationship. We have one child. That isn't friendship."

Booth props himself up onto his elbow, resting his head on his palm. His other hand lightly outlines her jaw before settling onto her hand. "Yeah, you're my wife, but that doesn't matter. What about all those times we go out for drinks? Or go ice skating? Or when we snuck onto that beach in Maryland even though it was closed? That's friendship, Bones. We were friends for a long time before we were a couple. That doesn't just fade away."

Brennan smiles, remembering those days with Booth. They have known each other for ten years now, working together for nine of them. They should have gotten sick of each other at this point. But really, the worst days were those seven months they didn't see each other when he was in Afghanistan and she was in the Maluku Islands. Brennan never believed in soulmates, but she did believe in her inability to be apart from Booth.

"Does that mean you're my best friend?"

"I thought Angela was your best friend."

She thinks back to first time she truly saw him smile. She called it his charm smile. It stretched to his eyes and somehow the world seemed a little brighter even if that wasn't scientifically true. She felt comfortable with him. Maybe that's what friendship is. A secondary home.

She thinks about the first time they _really_ hugged. The time Booth broke out of the hospital after just getting hit by a bomb and saved her. That was the first time she truly feared for her life. Tears burned her skin as the rope that tied her up cut into her wrists. That man was going to kill her, she was sure of it. But then Booth was there. Limping and battered and hurt and yet he still shot that man and saved her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried. He was there for her. Not as her partner, but as her friend.

He was always there. Even when she push, push, _pushed_ him away and thought he would never return, he came back. In the bathtub of his house, at the coffee cart outside of the Jeffersonian, every single day of work after he kissed her and she said no. He always came back.

Her friend … her _best_ friend.

"I thought so too," she says quietly.

Booth presses a kiss to her forehead. "I'm not offended that Angela is your best friend. You've known her for longer. You're like sisters."

"Yes but …" she draws in a breath, "now you've got me all confused because you're _you,_ Booth."

He looks at her quizzingly. "Yes, I'm Booth."

Brennan shakes her head. "What I mean is, if I believed in soulmates, you would be mine. You're kind and intelligent—even though you rely on your gut way too much—and selfless. You're not my best friend... you're my best everything."

She refrains herself from saying "even if that can't be confirmed empirically" because she realizes now that science cannot explain Booth. It cannot explain love and joy and the feeling of waking up next to him _._ To feel him smile against her mouth and his heartbeat under her fingers and the strength of his arms. _Him._

He smiles at this. He smiles so wide, it almost defies anatomy. Crinkles form around his eyes as his grin—no, his _beam_ —dominates all of his features.

He leans over and kisses her, slow and soft and loving. She caresses his cheek and his late night scruff tickles her skin. She laughs against his lips and he's smiling even harder and how is it possible to be this in love?

"Your best everything, huh?" he says, resting his forehead against hers.

"My best everything."

He pulls her against his chest and presses a smattering of kisses against her cheek, making her laugh even more. His bare chest is warm against her back and his fingers intertwine with hers. Her senses are alive with all things Booth: the smell of his shampoo and the heat of his skin and the sound of his breaths.

"I love you," he whispers, his bottom lip catching the outer edge of her ear. "I love you so much."

"I love you so much too," she smiles.

He drops a kiss to her shoulder. "But you should know that I love you more."

Brennan loosens herself from her husband's grip and faces him, their noses almost touching. "I don't think so."

"Just a little bit more."

"Not possible."

"Just a teeny, tiny bit more."

"No, Booth."

"Prove it then."

She closes the gap between them and kisses him so hard that it hurts and they both need to come up for air, but she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

He looks at her in a daze, his dark eyes like the night sky. "How about we call it a truce?"

Brennan never loses, never ties, never throws in the towel. But it's Booth. The one exception. "Deal."

Booth lays on his back, and Brennan curls up against him, her head on his chest and her arm strung across his abdomen. It's quiet now. She shuts her eyes, letting her tiredness consume her.

And then she hears him. His voice is soft but husky.

"My best everything."

* * *

 **Sorry, it's so short, but I think it's cute nonetheless.**

 **Review?**


	3. Dreaming

**This chapter has a different vibe from the previous two in that it takes place pre-canon.**

 **Summary: Brennan wakes up in the middle of the night from a terrifying nightmare. There's only one person she thinks of turning to.**

* * *

Rule number one: never fall asleep afraid.

She is jerked awake by the breath being stolen from her lungs. It's the fifth time this month. The nightmare of being buried alive. She tells herself she's over it, ignoring the confined feeling that settles into her bones as she encases her body with her blanket. Blankets are soft unlike gravel, but both can be suffocating.

It's not typical of her to be fearful. She has seen mass graves she thought were worthy of the nickname hell, and she was fine. She has been locked up by corrupt soldiers, and although in the moment, she worried for her life, she made it out alive with bruises only on her skin, not on her subconscious.

Psychology tells her it is the traumatic moment of being buried alive that causes her mind to be unable to move on. But she doesn't believe in psychology. Booth dug her out. She didn't die. She should be fine.

But now she wakes up in cold sweat as her knuckles turn white from gripping onto her pillow. She swears she is being crushed from the outside in, rocks and dirt piling up in her rib cage and pressing onto her lungs. She wants to be logical, but repeating "it's only a dream" tastes acrid in her mouth because emotions might be soft, but fear is suddenly embedded into her brain's hard drive. It's a virus to the human species, a flaw that leaves people vulnerable. Brennan hates that feeling, hates the helplessness that accompanies terror in the murky night.

She turns over and sees her alarm clock blink 3:00. It is a strange time in the night. Too late to justify staying up, too early to start her day. Washington D.C. is at its most silent with sleep swallowing words and sheets slipping across skin.

He's probably asleep with the rest of the city, but her thumb hovers over his contact name, and she presses OK before her rationale catches up with her actions.

He answers on the third ring. "Bones?" His voice is rough yet comforting. She realizes she has never heard him like this before. She's seen him tired: heavy shoulders and dark circles around sullen eyes after a particularly difficult case. But this is different. It's a warm kind of sleepy like honey dripped into tea.

Her thundering heart begins to dull into the lapping of waves.

"Booth."

"What are you doing awake?" He asks groggily, and she can picture him pushing his fingers through his brown hair. It is a habit. Stressed, exhausted, confused. Long fingers entangling with soft strands.

"I…" and then she stops. And the reality of her irrationality comes back. "It's nothing. I'm sorry for waking you up."

"No, Bones. Tell me what's wrong." The sweetness of his morning voice dissipates into the strength of his ingrained protectiveness.

She's not sure why she's so embarrassed. It is normal for people to have nightmares. But she's not normal, she's extraordinary, and extraordinary people shouldn't be so battered by the intangible. "I, um, had a nightmare."

She can hear a shuffling on the other end of the receiver before he speaks again. "About what?"

"The gravedigger." She swallows. "And getting buried alive."

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks, and it's such a simple question, it's almost foreign.

"I—I don't know what I want. I'm not used to feeling like this." She bites on her bottom lip because she really doesn't. She can't remember the last nightmare she's had. It was probably during her first months of abandonment. But that's also when she decided she would never let herself be hurt like that again, and the nightmares stopped.

Until now.

"Stay put." He says. There's more shuffling.

"What?"

"I'm coming over."

"Booth." She tries to protest. "It's early in the morning. You don't have to."

"Or you could view it as late in the night. You need your sleep, and that won't happen if you stay by yourself. I'll be there in five."

She is pulled out from under her covers by the knocking at her door. She opens the door and finds him standing in a pair of loose grey sweatpants and one of his black FBI sweatshirts he barely ever wears. In this moment, she's not sure why. With his hair uncharacteristically haphazard and a tired smile stretched across his lips, her nightmares diffuse to make room for a singular thought: he looks cute.

"Hey." He says. The gentleness of his words settle across her skin, consuming her.

"Hey."

His arms are around her before she can do anything about it. He smells like clean laundry and something else, something warm like coffee grounds and spiced aftershave. She hugs him back, burying her nose into his heavy sweatshirt and listening to his even breaths. In, out, in, out. He's taller than she remembers despite seeing him everyday. Maybe it's her who is smaller, as if the night and its darkness have shrunk her down to a more powerless size. His hand rubs circles onto her back, and she holds onto him tighter. She shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be letting her partner comfort her in a fit of weakness that is so atypical of her. But his arms are so large and he smells so good and she snuggles into the crook of his body.

He rests his chin onto her head. Their height difference has never been more discernible. "Have these dreams happened before?"

"Yes," she mumbles. "This is the fifth one."

"Why didn't you tell me?" It's not criticizing; it's soft in the way of Booth.

"Because it's irrational. They're only nightmares. You wake up, and they go away. I shouldn't be afraid of something that isn't real." She tries to justify, but her whiten knuckles cling onto his sweatshirt.

"It's okay to just be human, Bones. Not Dr. Temperance Brennan the leading forensic anthropologist or best-selling author." He murmurs softly. "Just Bones."

"But I'm not weak," she argues. "I'm not this person."

"Fear isn't a weakness," he soothes, his hand giving her arm a comforting squeeze. "You aren't supposed to just get over something like being buried alive, Bones. You heard it from Angela: Hodgins is still rattled by it. It's okay to be afraid too."

"I… I just don't know to deal with this. I'm used to being able to look at the evidence and compartmentalize."

"But this is different."

"Yeah," she breathes. "I just want them to stop. I need them to stop. The gravedigger is still out there. I can't catch them if I fear them."

"Hey," he said, pulling his chin back and cupping her cheek with his hand. "You're Temperance Brennan. You can do anything. No person or nightmares or whatever can take that away from you."

"How can you have so much confidence in me?" She sniffles. "You're holding onto me like I might fall apart, and I'm clinging on just as tightly, but you still think I can do anything. It doesn't make sense."

"Because you're you, Bones." He smiles. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Even in moments like this?"

"Especially in moments like this. Because I know you're going to wake up and be twice as determined as you were the previous day."

She clears her throat after a quiet minute. "How long are we going to stay standing like this?"

She says this as if she minds it: immersing herself into the heat radiating from Booth's body. Her cheek is pillowed against his chest, and his chin begins to drop down to the top of her head again. It's strange how easily they fit together. Like a dip had been carved into his impressive physicality to make room for her.

"You don't seem to be moving," he remarks.

"You're the one who hugged me first," she counters, but a wave of tiredness cloud her words.

"It worked though, didn't it?" His voice drops down to a low whisper. "You're feeling better."

"Sometimes it scares me how well you know me," she admits before she realizes what she has said and hopes his sweatshirt drowned out her typically private thoughts.

But he hears her. "I consider it a privilege."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"Because everyone deserves someone who cares."

She's never heard him so honest before. Her chest is no longer constricted by the weight of buried cars and endless gravel. It's twisted by the weight of Booth's words. He cares.

And instead of being dragged down further, the thought frees her.

"I think I'm going to go back to bed." Her arms untangle from his waist, almost unwillingly.

His eyes seem to flash a similar look of disappointment, but he throws a warm smile her way. "Sounds good, Bones. I'll see you in a few hours."

He turns to leave, but she grabs ahold of his wrist, stopping him. "Hey, Booth. Do you… do you think you could keep this between us?"

"Of course."

Her fingers slide off of his skin, the heat of the simple moment lodged in her fingertips. "I, uh, just wanted to say tha—

"You don't have to say it, Bones. You know I'd do anything for you."

Her clothes still smell like him when she crawls into bed. It's a sense of solace, homely even. Her eyes flutter shut and rather than being swallowed by darkness, she drifts into a dream that's heavy in serenity, not fear.

And when she wakes up to the sound of Booth knocking on her door just hours later, this time to pick her up, she's smiling. He's smiling too when she opens the door. He keeps smiling on the car ride over as he explains their most recent case.

It's a new dynamic between them, a flourishing friendship, a taste of something beyond a partnership. She finds herself looking at him more often, checking for his typical Booth-ish grin or the way his eyes light up when he discovers a new lead. He gazes back at her when he thinks she isn't looking, but she can always feel his soft glance.

It's different.

It's... nice.

And it goes beyond words. This juxtaposition that is them starts to become something more of similarity in their need for one another. She doesn't want to call it a need, but his arms found her when her legs were destined to give out, and that has to mean something. Something undefinable, something that she cannot control.

The only words that live up to what she thinks of telling him are the ones she wrote in the letter crammed at the back of her dresser. He was the first person she thought of a moment of goodbyes. He was the only person she could think of. Hodgins was already saying goodbye to Angela. But Booth, he had to know how much he mattered to her in case her nightmare actually came true that day.

She might read her note to him someday. This growing bond between them is soon to collide like two stars crashing and burning all at once in a fiery blaze.

Or perhaps they won't collide. They'll come together like stars in a galaxy, bright and lustrous.

It's too early to make a next move, but for now, she watches him as he animatedly talks about a new restaurant down the end of the block he thinks they should try out.

He pauses his ramble and looks at her. "Something on your mind, Bones?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, it doesn't matter."

He flashes her a wide smile before continuing on, and she realizes some things don't need to be said. Or that some things can never be said as words wouldn't give them enough power.

But maybe someday she'll find a dictionary that matches Booth's charisma and charm and the way his eyes change from near black to caramel. She'll speak of the strength in his arms as well as his heart. Writing will cascade along pages reading of his selflessness and never ending belief in the good in people.

He breaks her thoughts again. "Bones, are you sure you're okay over there? You keep spacing out on me."

"I'm good, Booth." She starts smiling, harder, wider. "I'm doing really good."

His hand slips off of the steering wheel and gives her shoulder a squeeze. "I'm happy to hear that, Bones."

It is a simple moment between two friends, sharing words and smiles while also stealing the occasional glance. His hand is large against her shoulder, fingers spreading across a plane of bone and skin. There's a warmth that encases him both in his physicality and his voice. It's a comfortableness similar to when he stood in her apartment hugging her mere hours ago.

It's like she's dreaming.

* * *

 **I really love it when Booth and Brennan comfort each other.**

 **I'm going to be drowning in school soon, but I hope i can keep up with regular updates. Bones being over has me missing Booth and Brennan all the time.**


	4. Telling Sweets

**I couldn't shake this idea and quickly put this little story together. As great as Brennan's S6 pregnancy reveal was, it definitely deprived us early relationship B &B scenes. More specifically, how they would have told all of their friends that they were a couple. **

**So this is my take on B &B telling Sweets about them being a couple. I tried to go for a bit of a funny angle, so hope you enjoy.**

* * *

"How should we break it to him?"

"Break it to him?"

"You know... tell Sweets that we're a couple."

"We'll just go into his office and tell him."

"Bones, we can't do that! We've got to ease him into it."

"Booth, he's an adult, not a five-year-old child."

"I know but…"

"Booth, we've told everyone except him. Come on, everyone else was excited for us. There's nothing to worry about."

Booth only shakes his head and pushes open the door leading to Sweets' office, guiding Brennan in first with his hand on her back. Sweets stands at his desk, reading through a file. At the sound of the door clicking open, his head whips upwards, and he breaks into a smile at the sight of his friends.

"Hey, Booth." He says as he places down the manila folder he's holding. "Brennan. What's going on? Do we have a new case?"

"No, it's not a case." Booth says slowly. "We actually have some news."

Sweets' eyes shift, slightly nervous. "Good news? Bad news?"

"I think you're going to want to sit down, Sweets." Booth gestures towards the chair opposing him.

"Oh god," Sweets swallows, "it's bad news, isn't it? Someone's sick or one of you got fired or—"

Brennan cuts Sweets off. "No, it's good news." She gazes at Booth in a way Angela once described as her "inability to see anyone else in the room besides Booth" look. "It's _really_ good news."

Sweets slides into his chair, his foot impatiently tapping the floor and fingers drumming along the arms of the chair. He still looks indecisive with wide eyes and the anxious lick of his lips.

Brennan sits down on the couch, pulling Booth next to her. "See," she starts, "Booth and I aren't _just_ partners anymore…"

Sweets throws his arms up. "I thought you said this was good news! This isn't good news! You guys are supposed to work together. No one has a higher solve rate than you two. Plus, there's that whole emotional bond that we never finished discussing during your therapy sessions and—"

"Sweets, did you not listen to what Bones said?" Booth interjects with the shake of his head. He has a PhD in psychology and yet, Sweets still misses the most important part of the sentence. "She said we're not _just_ partners."

Sweets' eyes somehow widen even more. "So you guys are…"

Booth can't hold himself back any longer. "Bones and I are a couple now."

Booth has always anticipated that the day he told Sweets he and Brennan had finally become a couple, Sweets would start smiling like a kid in the candy store. Maybe he'd even cry. Or at least he'd start boasting about how he _always_ knew this was going to eventually happen, that the partners would give into their feelings for each other sooner or later.

What Booth doesn't expect is for Sweets to burst out laughing.

"You two?" Sweets leans forward with another laugh. "A couple? Yeah, right, sure you are. Come on guys, I've known you for four years now. I know you're just messing with me."

Brennan's eyebrows scrunch with confusion. "We're not messing with you. Booth and I are in a committed, monogamous relationship together."

"Seriously guys," Sweets says, "I know I always thought you two were in love, but you've missed your opportunities so many times, I've given up. I guess I was wrong. Now, who put who up to this little charade? It was Booth, wasn't it? He wanted to get back at me for something, so he's making you do this."

"You don't believe us?" Brennan asks.

"Not at all."

Brennan had told Booth she isn't big on public displays of affection. She finds them to be unprofessional and does not intend on kissing him on the job as much as he may beg. Booth had agreed, telling her he was fine with that because what he _really_ wanted to do with her definitely wasn't something to be done in public. Brennan had laughed at that and pulled him into a hot kiss that was far from workplace friendly.

But now Sweets isn't listening to them and seems pretty stuck on his false ideology that they are trying to get him excited for absolutely nothing. So, there only seems to be one last way of convincing him.

Brennan wraps her hand around the base of Booth's neck and tugs him closer to her, their mouths meeting in a kiss that is nowhere near chaste and platonic. She briefly wonders how she was able to avoid her attraction to her partner for so long as the surprised, hesitant brush of his lips becomes increasingly rougher. Her thumb smooths over his defined jawline, and his hands settle onto her hips. It takes her a moment to register that there is a third party in the room, but she eventually ducks her head back, a smirk now on her lips.

She should be embarrassed by the intensity of their kiss, especially since they are not alone and on top of that, they are sitting in the esteemed Edgar J. Hoover building. But Sweets' gaping mouth and flushed cheeks are priceless.

"Y-y-you," he sputters, "you guys are...you are…you-you're a couple."

Brennan interlaces her fingers with Booth's large ones. "Yes, we are." She glances up at Booth, smiling. He looks at her with a dazed form of awe. Angela calls that his "I'm impossibly in love with my partner" look.

"And we're very happy." Booth says, still gazing at her.

Sweet continues to stare at them in complete disbelief. "How did this all happen? When did this happen? I'm just, I'm sorry, but I never thought this day would ever come."

"It happened the night after Vincent died," Brennan explains. "His death left me very upset, and Booth was there to comfort me, and well…" she pauses, knowing that Booth would not want her to go into specifics as to what _really_ happened that night, "...here we are now."

"Wow, that's… odd timing, but wow." Sweets grins widely. "I'm happy for you guys. After everything you two have been through, you deserve it."

"Thank you, Sweets." Booth says, squeezing Brennan's hand tightly.

Sweets continues to beam and begins rambling about how he knew from their first ever session that there was something special about their relationship. How he had never seen two people have such a strong connection before and yet still go so long without actually acting upon it.

"So," Brennan turns to Booth and whispers, "when's the right time to tell him that I'm pregnant with your child?"

But apparently she didn't whisper quietly enough.

" _You're pregnant?!_ "

* * *

 **Fun, right?**


	5. A Good Reason

**This might be a little cheesy, but I'm a hopeless romantic, so what can I say?**

 **Basically, one of my all time favorite scenes is when Booth threatens that gang member in 1x13. It's one of his best moments, and Brennan doesn't ever know! So, of course, I needed to remedy that.**

* * *

"I don't think I've ever told you this before," Booth says while lying in bed, resting his chin on top of Brennan's head as she curls into his side, "but remember that case where we found a body in the back of that gang member's car, and it turned out to be a double homicide? And then you put on a funeral service for the victims' family? It had to be, oh, eight or so years ago now."

"Yes," she mumbles. "I specifically remember being annoyed with you for showing up late."

"I told you there was a good reason for that."

"A reason that you never told me despite us being partners."

"Well... I'll tell you now."

She pulls herself up from his body and props her chin in her palm, studying her husband. He momentarily thinks about how much things have changed since that case. It had occurred back during the first year of their partnership, when they were still figuring each other out and navigating the line between partnership and friendship. Back then, it didn't seem worth it to tell her why he had missed the funeral service. But maybe it had been the beginning of him shielding that one side of him, the one that cared about her way too much for someone who was supposed to be just another awkward squint.

It had been a catalyst, a beginning of him living, protecting, and nearly dying for her.

And she had no idea.

"After you took down that gang member down at the FBI," he briefly smiles, "which, I must add, was pretty hot."

She rolls her eyes. "You said the same thing after I punched that judge, Myles Hasty. I told you sex and violence go hand-in-hand."

Booth grimaces. "We're not having that conversation again."

"It's only human nature, Booth."

"Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?"

"You're the one who called me hot."

"I did." He licks his lips. "You are." But before be can venture too far with that thought, especially as Brennan lays wearing only a Flyers tee and a pair of shorts, he bites back his smirk and continues: "So, as I was saying, you beat up that gang member, and apparently that just doesn't fly by in gangs. I later got a tip that a hit was put out on you, so being the partner I am, I went to go have a little… _chat_ with him."

Brennan looks at him, a wave of shock settling over her eyes. "So, instead of being at the funeral…"

"I may or may not have threatened a gang member with my gun." Booth laughs uneasily. "And told him that if anything happened to you, I would kill him."

"Booth!" She lets out a small gasp. Despite her usual snide remarks regarding his protectiveness, she carries a similar defensiveness when it comes to him. "You could have gotten hurt for that. Or even worse—you could have been killed."

"He put a hit out on you, Bones. I had to protect you." He clasps his hand around her free one. "My life before yours." His voice is heavy with honesty. Their bedroom feels smaller, the weight of his words pulling the walls closer.

"I can't accept that." Her shoulders draw in at the shift in mood. "I'll never accept that."

"Bones, you know I'd die for you. You've always known that."

"But that doesn't mean I want you to!" Her eyes are wet and grey like a pond in the middle of a rainy day. "Remember when you got shot by that woman who was obsessed with you? Those days when I thought you were dead… it was like I was drowning. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel. And I was faced with one of the hardest moments of my life—trying to figure out who I was before I worked with you."

"You didn't even want to come to my funeral." He says softly, eyes darting downwards to miss her sad gaze.

"Because it would hurt too damn much, Booth." She drops her head out of her palm and untangles her fingers from his. Booth looks up, already missing the heat of her skin encasing his, to find her falling to his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck and her nose brushing against his neck. "It would mean you were actually dead."

"But I'm not. I'm still here." He soothes, his arms enveloping her frame. She feels smaller too, tightly holding onto him as her gentle breaths tickle the sensitive skin of his neck. "I'm always here."

"I know you are," she says, words muffled, "but sometimes it becomes all too real when I realize how easy it is for me to lose you."

"Bones, it'll take an army to take me away from you."

"I don't think an army will come after you, Booth." She lets out a watery laugh.

He tilts his head and presses his lips to her forehead. "Then you won't lose me."

"But why?" She beings to ask. "Why were you already so protective of me?"

"Because you're my partner, Bones." He says plainly. "That gang member was stupid to put a hit out on you."

"I know I'm your partner, but that case happened so long ago. We were still so brand new to each other."

"The amount of time we knew each other didn't matter to me. It was my job to protect you."

She sucks in a breath, opens her mouth, then hesitates.

His thumb draws circles onto her back. "What is it?"

She perches her cheek against his shoulder blade, meeting his dark eyes with her hazy blues. "Did you love me then?"

"I—I don't know." He stumbles over his words. "I don't really know if there was a specific moment where I fell in love with you. Honestly, I don't think I even truly knew what love was like before you. I mean, besides that familial kind of love I have for Pops and Parker and Christine."

"But what about Rebecca? Tessa? Cam?" Brennan bites down on her bottom lip. "...Hannah?"

"I think I loved them… but it was never the way it is with you." He brings one of his hands up to her cheek, smoothing his knuckles over the soft plane of skin. "All I know is that it's harder to point out the times where I _didn't_ feel some kind of love for you."

She pulls out her left arm out from under his neck and brings her palm to his cheek, hooking her thumb under his jaw. She brings her mouth to his, lips gently brushing in a way that gives love a new definition. He brushes her hair out of her face as he brings her closer to him. Almost the entirety of their bodies touch, but it's not enough. It's never enough.

She presses her forehead to his. "You're the first man I've ever loved."

"What about Sully?" He whispers.

"Even back then, he still wasn't you."

He kisses her again. And again and again and again. He's never sure when to stop when it comes to her.

"I'd love you forever if I could." She says it like it's a secret, like the world doesn't deserve to hear her.

"Why can't you?" He asks.

"We all die, Booth. Nothing is eternal."

"But we can try," he says.

"That doesn't make sense, Booth." She should be criticizing him for his irrationality, but he catches her smiling.

"Neither does love, and yet," his lips graze hers again, "here we are."

She settles back onto his chest like earlier that night, her arm resting in the crevice between his pectoral muscles. "I'll try then."

"For a forever?"

"For a forever."

* * *

 **Cute? Cheesy? At least it's B &B!**


	6. Crime Scene Mishap

**Let's play a game of "How many times can Emma make Booth shirtless because those 12 seasons just didn't give her enough" ...**

* * *

Brennan looked over the set of remains while Booth tapped his pen against his notepad, waiting for his wife's response.

"This would be a lot easier if we knew where the skull went," Brennan muttered frustratedly.

"What happened to you being able to solve a whole case with just one finger?" Booth prodded with a laugh.

"I'm the most brilliant forensic anthropologist in the world, Booth, of course I still will be able to solve this case. But I hate it when my remains have needlessly been moved," she scowled.

Can mulled about, conferring with the FBI forensic team. Hodgins collected samples of the bugs and other seemingly miscellaneous bits. There was a quiet lull minus the competitive banter between husband and wife (but the way they looked at each other proved it was just fun).

Until.

"There!" One of the FBI techs called out, pointing towards the pond near where the body was found. "The skull is out there in the pond."

The victim's skull bobbed in the murky pond, moving further and further away from shore.

"Go get it, Booth." Brennan said, her concentration remaining fixated on the remains.

" _Me_? Why don't you make Bug Boy get it?" Booth said, his voice catching a higher octave.

"No can do man. I'm busy trying to collect the bugs on the victim's clothing." Hodgins replied with a sorry look all over his face.

"You can't do that later?!"

"Not unless you want these flies to fly away and leave us with even less evidence."

Booth turned back to his wife. "You're going to owe me for this."

She only grinned.

Booth grimaced as he made his way into the pond, a wave of disgust settling over him with each step. The water was cold, mud squished beneath his _very nice_ dress shoes, and Booth didn't even want to imagine what he felt brush against his leg. He was already waist deep as ripples of water brushed against his button up shirt. The skull was still fifteen or so feet away.

He groaned. It wasn't even nine a.m. and his day was already ruined.

He sloshed through the water, the water somehow becoming less and less clear with each step. The skull—the bloody, mutilated, acrid skull—was finally within reaching distance. Booth looked down at his gloveless hands.

He _really_ didn't think this through.

Begrudgingly, Booth stuffed the skull under the crook of his arm, hearing Brennan words of "Don't tamper with the evidence!" on replay in his head.

He meandered his way back to shore, his soaked pants and shoes making the walk a grueling trek. The so-called pond was deeper than he expected with his crisp, white work shirt now sticking uncomfortably to his abdomen. At least he left his jacket in the car.

Brennan held back a laugh as Booth walked back towards her with a scowl and a trail of water left behind.

"Here," he said, pushing the skull towards her, "take it,"

"Thank you." She tried to bite back her smile but couldn't.

"Yeah, yeah, real funny, laugh at the soaking wet guy." Booth's locked jaw faltered as his bottom lip trembled and teeth chattered.

"You should take off your clothes."

" _Bones!_ " Booth's cheeks reddened.

Brennan looked at him quizzingly. "The water was cold and the air temperature is not that warm either. You'll get hypothermia if you don't warm up soon. Take off your wet clothes while I'll get you a couple of towels." And with that she was off.

Booth stood there defiantly for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in attempt to warm up, but he knew it wasn't going to work. His fingers found the knot of his tie, feeling heat spread across his cheek as he unloosened the tie and pulled it over his head. Booth knew he was in good shape, great shape even. He didn't wake up and go through his daily workout routine for nothing. It wasn't _that_ part he was embarrassed about. It was the fact that he was doing this in front of twenty or so people. Cops, agents, techs, his respected colleagues. This was something he should be doing for his wife, not an audience of squints.

He began to fiddle with his shirt buttons. First button, second button… his fingers slowed as he reached closer towards the bottom of his shirt.

Today was just not his day.

* * *

Brennan grabbed a couple of towels from the trunk of Booth's SUV. After going various places that weren't always the cleanest, Booth stashed a few towels in the back for moments like this.

Even though it was clear Booth was not enjoying this one.

Brennan walked back towards her husband—her now _half-naked_ husband. He slipped out of his soiled shirt and threw it to the ground before going to work on his belt. Brennan thought back to when Booth asked what her top three reasons were as to why she loved him. One, he loved her. Two, he loved Christine. Three, his physicality was remarkable. And she wasn't wrong. His biceps flexed under the nimble work of his fingers; his abdominal muscles retracted and tightened with each breath; his pectorals smoothed out into a broad set of shoulders. Booth was hot to put it plainly. Strong jawed, finely muscled, and all so very hot.

Brennan wasn't even surprised when she noticed other agents and techs gazing, some catching their bottom lips in attempt to keep a straight face. She didn't even feel jealous; it was more of a "I go home to _him_ to every night" kind of feeling.

"Here, Booth," she said, handing over a towel. He swiped it from her hands and threw it over his shoulder before sliding his belt out from the loops.

"Thanks, Bones," he muttered as he stepped out his pants, leaving him in just a pair of black boxer briefs.

It was safe to say that everyone was staring now.

Booth rubbed himself down as quickly as he could, his shivering subsiding. Brennan didn't even try to refocus her attention on the skeleton and decided to let the FBI techs wrap everything up for the Jeffersonian.

"You look good, Booth," she said, stepping towards him and wiping a strand droplet from his skin.

"Bones, you see me like this everyday. It's nothing new." He chuckled.

"I know," her voice was lower. "But there is something thrilling about having everyone gawk over what's mine."

"What happened to people not being property?" Booth tied the towel around his waist.

"You know what I mean, Booth."

"I do, Bones." His lips were so close, but this was work. This wasn't the time. Especially in his state of apparel.

Or lack of apparel really.

"Well, I'm all done here." Brennan said, taking a step back before her desires got the best of her. "Do you need to go back to the FBI or do you want to come to the lab with me?"

Booth looked down at the towel that hung on his waist. "That depends on whether or not I have spare clothes in the trunk."

The couple maneuvered from the crime scene and back towards their car. Luckily for Booth, an extra pair of pants and shirt were lying in the back seat. He shed his towel and threw on the dry clothing. Brennan leaned against the driver's side door and eyed her husband.

"Here, let me," she said as Booth started to put on his tie. She pulled the silky fabric into a neat knot before tugging on the bottom of his tie, Booth's lips meeting hers in a loving kiss.

"We're still at a crime scene, you know," Booth murmured.

"No one can see us." She whispered back.

"I'm almost tempted to go back to the Jeffersonian with you just so we can continue this in your office," he said, propping her against the door and kissing her harder.

She laughed. "Booth, we can't. Someone will catch us, and Cam definitely won't be happy about that."

"As if she and Arastoo haven't gotten a little frisky in her office before."

"Booth!" She playfully slapped him in the chest. "Don't say that."

"You know I'm not wrong."

She briefly kissed him again before letting out a sigh. "I really should be getting back to the Jeffersonian. The remains will be there soon."

"I guess you're right." Booth pulled his keys out from his pocket and opened the car.

"You know," she said when they both settled into their seats and Booth started the engine, "I think that's the most fun I've ever had at a crime scene."

His eyebrows quirked upwards. "Just wait till I stop by your office later."

"Booth! We are _not_ doing that."

He only smirked. "You can tell me your answer again this afternoon."

* * *

"Are the rumors true?" Angela asked hours later, sitting in the chair opposite of Brennan's desk. "Did you really make Booth go into freezing cold water and then have him strip himself to his boxers?"

"He could have gotten hypothermia if he didn't." Brennan said dismissively.

"Was everyone staring at him?" Angela pressed on.

"Yes, a lot of agents and techs were looking at him." Brennan replied, focusing on the paperwork before her.

"Were you jealous?"

Brennan looked up with a smirk. "Actually, no. I mean, why should I be? I'm the one he comes home to"

Angela laughed. "I would feel like that too. You definitely are a lucky woman."

"Well, I am fortunate to have a husband in great shape."

"More than great shape. Don't you hear what they call him down at the Hoover Building?" Angela's eyebrows raised.

Brennan's interest was piqued, and she placed down her pen. "No, what?"

"I've heard Agent Studly thrown around quite a few times," Angela said, still laughing. "But don't worry, Brennan. That man sees no one in this world except you."

"Booth has twenty-ten vision. I'm pretty sure he sees even more than us." Brennan said.

"You know what I mean, Brennan. You're everything to Booth." She shook her head with a smile. "And even though you try to be the more rational one of the two, you're as crazy about him too."

As if on cue, Booth knocked on the doorframe of Brennan's office before walking in. "Who's crazy about who?"

Angela looked over Brennan who had visibly brightened up at the sight of her husband. "Take a guess."

Booth's lips began to curve into the hint of a smile, and Angela took that as her cue to leave. "I'll see you two tomorrow."

"Bye, Angela." Brennan said as Booth gave her a half-hearted wave.

Booth peeked over his shoulder and once Angela was out of view, he leaned over and pressed his lips to Brennan's. "You don't know how much I've been wanting to do that since this morning."

"Shouldn't we be past the honeymoon phase already?" She rose up out of her seat, her hands cradling his face as she kissed him again.

"Maybe, but since when did we do anything normally?" Booth asked as his grip fell to her hips, drawing her closer.

"We"— _kiss—_ "really"— _kiss—"_ shouldn't"— _kiss—_ "be" _— _ki_ ss—"_doing" _— _ki_ ss—"_this."

"Mhmm," he only kissed her harder, "your lips seem to think otherwise"

"Someone is going to see us."

"It's not like we're making out on the platform."

"Still…"

"Come on, Bones, we're married. What do people expect?"

"For us to do this at home?"

"Tell me you aren't enjoying this, and I'll stop."

His face was only centimeters away, his usual cocky smile carved into his dimpled cheeks. She could smell the scent of his cologne, the one that he always bought after she mistakenly told him in their days of being 'just friends' that she liked the way he smelled. The skin along her hip burned as his fingers flirted with the hem of her shirt, not working enough to slip the fabric off but constantly moving as they skirted along the waist of her pants.

He was infuriating in his knowledge of easily she fell victim to the brush of his lips and the heat of his gaze. She had controlled herself around him for so long, but now they were a couple, she relinquished a part of herself to him.

Cam could walk by any moment, and it was almost thrilling. This was all so wrong, and all so right. Brennan inspected the soft pink bow of Booth's lips before moving to close the gap between them.

"I'm really going to need to get more blinds for my windows."

* * *

 **I always wanted B &B to kiss more at work. I mean, there's not much better than that kiss outside of Booth's office in 9x04!**


	7. Summer Rain

**Because there's nothing more romantic than kissing in the rain ...**

* * *

It smells of summer warmth and rain when she wakes up. Raindrops sound heavily against their bedroom window, a welcomed noise in a world often drowned out by alarm clocks and telephone rings. A soft grey encases the morning, endless clouds swallowing the sun in a gentle blanket of silver and faded blues. She usually detests rain. Detests the way it drowns the ground and sweeps away remains, clings to her clothes and hair, blurs vision and tires thought.

But today it's a comforting lull, a slowing of time to make way for the sky's rebirth.

He's still asleep next to her. Only his fingertips brush against her, but it's a constant reminder that she is lying with him. He does it subconsciously, his reaching out towards her. She had asked him when it started, the reminders, and he had said for as long as he could remember. It had been more often after she had been abducted by the agent who he had wrongfully trusted. More after he had been shot. More after they had wound up in bed together in light of Vincent's death. He tells her he doesn't know when to stop. She tells him he never wants him to.

His chest rises and falls, almost in tandem with the storm outside. She tilts her body towards him and runs her thumb over the crown of his forehead for no reason except that he's here, with her, sleeping.

(She needs reminders too).

Her absentminded touch causes him to stir, his fluttering eyelids giving way to his dark eyes. She's always harbored a fascination for his eyes. As an author, she dedicates her life to pointing out the details. Amber embedded in a hazel stare or layers of blue that match the ocean or smudges of mascara after a long day that blur into the dark circles under a person's eyes.

Her favorite detail of his eyes isn't the way they look, but the way they look at her. Even in his morning daze, his gaze holds her attention in its admiration and love. He watches her when she isn't aware of his stare until she looks up. In the beginning of their partnership, he would always dip his head down afterwards, a red blush getting trapped in his dimples at the realization that he had been caught. Now, he keeps looking. It's an unspoken I love you, an unsaid forever.

"Sorry for waking you up," she whispers.

"No," he hums through sleepy words, "don't be sorry."

She looks over her shoulder. "It's raining."

"It's nice," he says. "It's like the world is telling us to stay home."

"I'd like to listen then." She curls into their white sheets, only her head poking out as she looks at her husband. He's starting to smile, his wakefulness stretching his lips across his cheeks.

"Is Christine awake, too?" He asks.

She shakes her head. "I haven't heard her cry. I think the sound of the rain is soothing to her."

"Wow," he says, "we really are getting a quiet morning to ourselves."

She listens to the patter of the rain, the evenness of his breaths, the calm quietness. "We haven't had one of those in a long time."

His gaze shifts from her to the rainy world outside of their windows. "I have an idea."

"An idea?"

"We should go outside."

She looks at him dubiously. "But it's raining."

He grins at her widely, a brightness settling across his brown eyes. "That's the fun part."

"How is that fun? We're going to get all wet."

"And then we'll come inside and dry off and you'll realize how right I was about it being fun." He's already getting out of bed and motions for her to follow.

She skeptically trails behind as he leads them into their backyard. The rest of their neighborhood is still with window blinds drawn shut and not a single car in the streets. Heavy raindrops begin to collide with her shirt, the light grey cotton turning into dark pools that cling onto her skin. He stands a couple feet in front of her in only a pair of old basketball shorts. Rain collects in the strands of his hair and bathes his smiling face. His tanned chest glistens with silver droplets, water dripping down the ravines of his muscular abdomen before disappearing at the waistband.

"What now?" She asks, and it feels like she's shouting as the rain falls a bit harder.

He steps closer to her. "Remember our first kiss?"

She nods. "Of course. It was right outside of the pool house."

"It was raining then, too." His hands find her hips, his thumbs slipping under the soaked fabric of her shirt and brushing against her skin. "Quite romantic for a first kiss."

"It was a good kiss." She says, slightly shivering at the contact of his skin against hers.

"We haven't kissed in the rain since then."

"Why would we?"

"Because like I said, Bones, it's romantic."

"You think everything is romantic, Booth."

He shushes her. "Stop trying to ruin my moment."

"What momen—" and then his lips are on hers and it's like they're back to their first case together. Exciting, tantalizing, and melting along with the rain.

But this time it's better. The press of his mouth is a loving familiarity, not the salacious kiss of a stranger. His tongue doesn't taste like alcohol, but like the clean mint of his toothpaste. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, while his hands slide down from her hips to the back of her thighs. Understanding what he's hinting at, she jumps upwards, his arms catching the weight of her body as she circles her legs around his waist.

She begins laughing against his mouth out of pure happiness. He smiles back, wide and charming and completely Booth.

"So," he asks, "is this fun?"

The bruising kiss she presses against his lips is the only answer he needs.

* * *

 **I'm surprising myself with how quickly I've been updating lately. But you guys have been giving me such positive reviews, I just can't stop writing :)**


	8. Airport Reunion

**Sorry for the brief hiatus. I've been busy with exams and my screenwriting course at New York University (which I just completed and it was _amazing_ BTW. My dream of becoming a screenwriter has grown even more). But I'm back! However, this fic might be a little rusty. I gotta get back into the groove of these characters after spending all my time writing my own TV script with my own characters for NYU.**

 **Anyways, I always thought B &B had the cutest reunion moments (their hug in 5x01 for example), so why not have them reunite again?**

* * *

Booth stands outside of the baggage claim area, constantly checking his phone as minutes tick by at an agonizingly slow pace. Christine wraps her arms around his leg, nimble fingers gripping into his slacks and feet rocking in anticipation. The rush of the airport is a loud clash of rolling suitcases and loved ones reuniting. Booth strains his neck, searching for the only person that matters in this mass of thousands.

His partner. His wife. His Bones.

When Brennan had first told him nearly a month ago that she would be going on a three week book tour to promote her latest book, he almost spit out his coffee. Anytime they spent days, weeks, or months always ached. Their seven months apart with Brennan in the Maluku Islands and Booth in Afghanistan, Brennan on the run, the distance that grew between them when Booth had to reject Brennan's proposal. It is because of those moments that the duo tries to remain inseparable. But Brennan had thrown Booth for a complete curve; it would now be three weeks without waking up next to her or bickering back and forth on their car rides to work or sneaking in chaste kisses when their colleagues weren't looking.

Booth looked back at her with uneasy eyes.

"Three weeks?" He asked, pouting.

"It's not that long of a time, Booth," she replied. "I'll be back before you know it."

"I know, but—"

"Booth, my publicist says this is important. I've been avoiding fan events like these for some time because of our work and Christine. Now's the right time." She leaned forward and kissed the pout right off his mouth. "Plus, just think of how good our reunion will be."

Still slightly dazed from their kiss, he nodded. "Okay, three weeks it is."

The three weeks had flitted by with nonstop texts throughout the day and evening video chats after Booth had put Christine down for the night. The constant conversation between them had been nice, but it was nowhere near the same. Booth could only picture the way she might have giggled at some of his texts while blushing at others. 'I love you' didn't hold the same meaning through blocked letters to the way it does when she whispers it into his ear at one a.m. before sleep renders her lips immovable.

But, the three weeks have finally come to a much awaited end. Brennan is coming home.

It really isn't that long of a time—three weeks. But this is Brennan, and everything starts and stops when it comes to her. He had once led a life without her, except it has faded into a blurred memory of sniper rifles and unclear visitation rights of his son. His constant is now her. Even in moments when he thought all had been lost between them—a bullet to his chest, a tumor in his brain, her telling him no after he took a gamble and kissed her outside of the Hoover building, him bringing home Hannah—they have always prevailed.

Booth's hand fidgets with a white poster board, feeling the smooth paper between his fingers. Being the romantic he is, he and Christine had made a sign for Brennan like one straight out of a cliché romcom. In his neatest handwriting possible, he scribed 'BONES' across the poster board while Christine drew in mini skeletons.

He looks down at his phone one last time. 11:30 a.m. "Come on," he mutters. She is supposed to arrive any second, and Booth's impatience grows. He just wants the love of his life back by his side.

As if fate had heard him, he sees a flash of her brown hair moving into view. He holds up the sign, breaking into a smile as Christine lets go of his leg and rushes towards her mom. Brennan finds Christine first, letting go of her suitcase and scooping her baby girl into her arms. She presses a smattering of kisses to Christine's head before looking further ahead and seeing Booth.

She breaks into a smile that's so wide, Booth's not sure how her face doesn't hurt.

He walks over to his little family, still holding up the sign.

"What is that?" Brennan asks, her beam growing, as her eyes flit towards the poster board.

"Christine and I wanted to make sure you could find us, so we made this." Booth says with a smile.

"Do you like it, Mommy?" Christine asks, eyes wide with a need for reassurance

"I love it," Brennan replies surely, "and I love you." She presses another kiss to her daughter's forehead.

"Plus," Booth continues, "I think it's pretty romantic."

"It is," Brennan shifts Christine to her left side and leans closer.

Booth drops the sign to his feet and moves to meet his wife's lips before stopping.

Brennan's eyebrows twist. "What?"

"I don't think our little monkey needs to see this," he laughs before bringing his right hand up to cover Christine's eyes and then brushing his lips against Brennan's.

" _Daddy_ ," Christine complains as she tries to pull at his hand.

Booth ignores his daughter momentarily, pressing his mouth harder to his wife's. She happily obliges, her lips forming a smile under his. It's this that he has missed the most: the physical reminders of how much they love each other. Their relationship has always shared a connection that extends beyond the spoken word. It was before they could kiss, when their meeting eyes was enough at the time. Now, it is how her lips were seemingly made to fit his.

At the sound of another one of his daughter's protests, Booth reluctantly pulls his head back and drops down his hand. Christine wriggles her way out of Brennan's grip and slides back onto her feet, picking up their sign that Booth had dropped while Brennan grabs her suitcase. Booth holds out his hand and feels Brennan's fingers intertwine with his as Christine leads the way back to their car.

He quickly leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Brennan's lips. She looks back at him with her ever-so-mesmerizing eyes that have captivated him since the day they first met. It's the way her smile gets trapped in their shades of blue, a joy that makes all of her features seem much more vibrant.

He swears he's falling in love all over again.

"So, Bones," he says, "are you ready to go home?"

"I already am home, Booth." She smiles, squeezing his hand tighter. "Home is wherever you are."

* * *

 **I really will try to keep up with regular updates again.**


	9. Inertia

**If you didn't like Sweets, you might not enjoy this chapter, so avert your eyes lol. As for me though, I _loved_ Sweets, and his death killed me on the inside. Except, I think what hurt me even more than Sweets' death was Booth's reaction to Sweets' death. David's acting tears me apart every time. So, of course, I had to continue on with that scene and make myself sadder.**

* * *

Sweets is dead.

It's funny how complex the English language can be with its words and grammar. Sentences become lofty and languid as the true meaning has to be sifted through metaphors and hidden phrases.

Life isn't like that.

Sweets is dead.

She's never seen her husband so upset before. She has seen him sad; she watches the way it weighs down his shoulders and darkens his eyes and results in the errand tear on his cheek. But this is new. This type of sadness is consuming. He leans back against the SUV, hands trembling and mouth agape as the tears flow more freely.

The little brother he never wanted but was glad to end up having is dead.

The ambulance is coming to take Sweets' body away. Booth is still using the SUV as a crutch, his body ready to give out. Brennan stops pacing to sit down next to her husband. Her husband. When Sweets first met them, Booth was simply her partner. Sweets saw them undergo the transformation of their partnership that may not have occurred if he wasn't there.

Now he's gone. He won't attend Christine's next birthday party or watch Booth and Brennan celebrate their first wedding anniversary.

He won't even see his own son being born.

Booth's head falls to Brennan's shoulder, still shaking, still sobbing. She rests her head against his. She's never been the best at comforting people, but this is Booth, and she feels her heart being crushed as the reality of Sweets' forever absence overtakes the both of them.

"Shhh," she tries to sooth, her hand reaching to one of his and squeezing it.

He doesn't respond. Her shoulder becomes progressively wetter. She's upset too, but this is overwhelming for him. Being shot months ago, going to prison, getting released from prison, and just now, watching one of his closest friends die.

"It's my fault," Booth croaks.

"No, it's not," she says with fierce certainty. "It's not your fault."

"I should have been the one to give the warrant," he swallows, "not Sweets."

Paramedics surround Sweets. His lifeless body gets placed onto a stretcher before disappearing under a white sheet being draped across his cooling skin.

He's gone.

He's really gone.

"I'm not going to let you blame yourself." She says as she watches the stretcher be settled into the back of the ambulance.

He pulls his head out from under hers and looks at her. His eyes are defeated, black like stars stolen from the night sky. "Bones, I know what you're trying to do, but—"

"Not now, Booth. Just," she lets out a shaky breath, "just allow yourself to grieve."

And Booth listens. Not because he wants to, but because Brennan typically never lets emotion dictate her actions. She sees the purpose in being upset, but she usually avoids it due to it clouding rational thought, especially during a case like the one they're working now.

Except it's Sweets.

It's the psychologist whose therapy sessions they originally despised. It's the kid they didn't know shared scars (both metaphorically and physically) similar to theirs. It's the friend they let stay in their home after things with Daisy didn't work out for the time being. It's the honorary family member they have lost too soon.

Booth finds the strength in his legs to stand. He pulls up Brennan with him, never letting go of her hand. Techs and other agents begin to flood to the crime scene, cluttering and constricting as they collect evidence.

Evidence. Sweets is now evidence. Brennan's never hated the word so much more before.

She leads her husband back to their car and away from everyone else. Once hidden from view, she throws her arms around him, pulling him into a fierce hug. He more than obliges, burying his face into her shoulder as he draws her closer and closer and closer.

"We have to go back to the lab," she breathes. "We have to examine Sweets."

"He didn't deserve this, Bones," Booth says softly.

"No, he didn't." She murmurs. "None of us deserve this."

"How did we end up here?" His heavy question brings her further into his hug. "Epps, Gormogon, the Gravedigger, Broadsky, Pelant, and now this. How do we always end up getting hurt again?"

"It comes with our job, Booth." Brennan says. "It shouldn't surprise you."

"But it does. I can't help it. I mean, doesn't it surprise you too?"

She hesitantly nods into his neck. "I thought that after Pelant, nothing could get worse. Irrational, yes, but I wanted to be hopeful like you."

"I'm sorry, Bones." He says it so quietly, she almost doesn't hear him.

She pulls her body back to face him. He looks up at the loss of their physical contact. It hurts her to look him in the eye, to see the fragility in the man she's always equated to strength.

Her words are quiet too. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because your main passion has always been dealing with people who have been dead for thousands of years, not with murder victims. I dragged you into this. All the pain and sadness and death. I'm the reason you just had to watch one of our closest friends die."

She lets out a sad sigh. "Booth..."

"I'm just really—"

She jerks him back into her arms, feeling the scruff of his beard scratch her cheek at her abrupt movement. "No, Booth, don't be sorry. I don't regret any of this. We've suffered, and we've prevailed. It's inertia. We keep going. I'm going to miss Sweets, and I know you will too, but we can get through this. And you know, I did enjoy studying prehistoric anthropology, but that was before I realized it was always missing one thing."

"What's that?" He asks.

"You."

He pulls her chin from his shoulder and into his hands, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

"I love you." He says. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too." She then darts her gaze downwards and swallows, remembering. "We have to go back to the lab."

"I know."

"I have to help examine Sweets' body."

"I know."

"You don't have to come. I know it's going to be hard on you."

He grabs both her hands and squeezes them. "No, Bones, I'll be there. I'm always by your side, okay? Plus, it—it's Sweets."

This time, it's her agreeing. "I know."

They turn to face Booth's car and slowly climb in. Booth starts the ignition and begins to drive to the Jeffersonian.

"He lived a pretty good life," Booth says after a moment.

"He did." Brennan replies.

"He was a good psychologist. I gave him a lot of flack, but he was usually right when it came to cases."

She nods. "I think he was right about a lot of things."

He looks at her, head cocked. "Even about psychology?"

She allows her lips to curve into a small smile. "About us."

* * *

 **Told ya I would keep up with those updates haha :)**


	10. Undercover

**I'm thinking this is set around s3-ish since we didn't get an undercover episode that season, so here's an undercover episode I've always wanted: B &B as lifeguards. This is just a quick little sneak peak into what I thought it would have been like from a Booth and Brennan standpoint since the case isn't really developed, haha.**

 **Also, 100+ reviews is really, really cool, so thank you!**

* * *

Booth impatiently taps his foot on the floor while Brennan sits motionless. It's a comparison that Sweets would make if he was here: agitation versus calm rationale. Another difference, another opposite, another reason why they balance each other out and have such a strong bond.

"Doesn't Sweets realize we're busy working on a case here?" Booth scoffs, fingers gripping onto his phone as he awaits an update from Cam about the newest victim. "I don't have time for this."

"Booth, give it a minute." Brennan looks down at her watch. "We've only been sitting here for two minutes."

"I know, but what does that kid have to do that's more important than our so-called _needed_ therapy sessions?" He says, words sharp with annoyance.

As if on cue, Sweets walks in, wearing his usual childlike smile. He slides into his chair opposing the duo and claps his hands across his lap, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken excitement.

"Agent Booth," he nods towards them, "Doctor Brennan."

"Sweets." Booth says bluntly. "Just cut to the chase already. You never schedule one of our sessions at the last minute nor do you ever arrive late."

"I was just talking to Deputy Director Stark," Sweets explains through upturned lips, "and he informed me that you two have done undercover work before."

"Yes, we did. For a case out in Las Vegas." Brennan says. "Which now looking back was not a good idea considering Booth's gambling past."

"Bones," Booth hisses. "Now is _not_ time for that."

"What, Booth, is it wrong that I'm concerned about you relapsing?" Brennan asks, looking at him.

"No, Bones, I like that you mind. But I don't want Sweets to start nitpicking a part of my past I try to forget about." Booth throws daggers in Sweet's direction.

Sweets holds his hands up. "Hey, whoa, I was just about to suggest the idea of you two going undercover again."

"Undercover?" Brennan's eyebrow hitches upwards.

Booth's expression mirrors his confused partner. "What? Why?"

Their most recent case has landed them at a private beach on the Virginia shore. The victim is a lifeguard at the beach, a young man in his 20s whose bones had been found crashing into a pile of rocks near the shoreline. With the only a select group of families and other fellow lifeguards having access to the beach, the suspect pool is already fairly small. It seems fairly routine, but the young psychologist has a different idea.

"In a type of private community like this, people are going to be covering for each other. You guys need to get yourself in there and gain everyone's trust. It'll get open them up and hopefully lead you to the killer." Sweets explains.

"So, what are we going undercover as?" Booth asks. "New members of this beach?"

"Actually, I was thinking something more along the line of being lifeguards."

" _Lifeguards_?" Brennan questions incredulously as Booth looks at Sweets with bewilderment and says, "You do realize most lifeguards are in their twenties and me and Bones are, well, _not._ "

Sweets clears his throat. "More like lifeguard instructors. I was talking to the woman who owns the beach, and she told me there's a new batch of lifeguards who need to be overseen, and well, that's where you two come into play."

Booth turns to look at Brennan. "What do you think, Bones?"

"I usually don't put much merit into Sweets' thinking," Brennan says as Sweets lets out a defeated sigh, "but I think he might be right in this instance. Anthropologically speaking, small communities like this will do anything to look out for each other. Going undercover appears to be our best option."

"So… Tony and Roxie?" Booth asks, leaning closer and already falling into their flirtatious cover story.

"Tony and Roxie." She grins back, eyes dancing with memories of Vegas on the mind.

Sweets gives them a sort of _We need to talk about this_ look, then says, "I guess it's settled then."

Booth jumps from his seat on the couch. "We'll call you with updates. Come on, Bones. We gotta get our bathing suits on."

* * *

The summer sun beats down on Booth's back as he watches Brennan slather sunscreen over her arms. He subconsciously licks his lips, taking in the sight of Brennan in nothing but a red, tight bathing suit. He had already caught her looking him over when he stripped off his t-shirt earlier. She, of course, had been able to play it off by making some comment about how this was her staying in character, how they had to play infatuated with each other.

Which is easy for Booth especially as he tries to swallow down his jealousy when he notices a few beachgoers looking over in Brennan's direction.

The beach owner that Sweets had spoken too, a short woman named Lindsay Jacobs, sets the two of them in the main lifeguard station smack dab in the middle of the beach. After meeting with a couple of all other lifeguards, all young and lanky college kids, they try to focus on the task at hand of finding the murderer.

 _Try_ is the key word.

He pulls himself up the wooden ladder and sits on the bench of the lifeguard's station. She isn't far behind, cramming herself next to him as she wipes at the sunscreen on her neck.

"Here," he says, "you missed a spot."

His fingers sweep across the sensitive skin of her throat, too slow and too intricate for the simple movement of erasing away a final bit of white cream.

Her cheeks are red when he looks at her.

He knows it's not because of a sunburn.

She clears her throat. "We need to figure out a way to ask people what they were doing on Friday night. I know you've said that subtly isn't really my thing."

"Bones, I don't think you're going to have any problem with getting people to speak you," Booth's eyes flit over her bathing suit before shaking away any lingering thoughts. "…But I think we should start by putting together a pool of suspects. My gut is telling me it's one of the fathers out here who probably got all upset seeing their daughter flirting with the new lifeguard."

Brennan peers at him. "Your gut?"

"Of course my gut. I'm a father. I know what it's like."

"You have a son, not a daughter."

"But that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like to be overprotective." He explains. "Come on, Bones, you said that the college kid had symmetrical features or whatever. This is probably a case of guy meets girl, girl falls for guy, father finds out sort of deal."

She questioning look turns into some of small pride. "For a hunch supposedly based on your gut, there actually is some logic to your thought."

"What can I say, Bones?" He smiles. "You've rubbed off on me."

When she smiles back at him, it's even brighter than the sun. He watches her start to lean forward, her eyes landing on a man standing near them who settles into into beach chair next to a teenage girl, presumably his daughter. It's a good lead, Booth thinks, but his hand has other thoughts. His fingers reach towards her thigh, pulling her back down next to him. She darts her eyes at him.

" _What_?"

His hand is still resting on her thigh. "Did you like to go to the beach when you were a kid?"

She doesn't notice his hand. Or maybe she's still in the character of Roxie. Or maybe, just maybe, she likes the feeling of it. "I always did find it fun to explore the ocean ecosystem when I was a child."

He pokes his tongue out between his teeth. "That's not fun, Bones. I meant like trying to jump over crashing waves and boogie boarding and building sandcastles."

"One time, when I was five, I made this huge sandcastle, complete with its own surrounding kingdoms, and Russ stomped over the entire thing." She remembers, souring. "I think it look me a year to forgive him."

Booth lets out a laugh. "You could have rebuilt it."

"I was proud of that sandcastle!" She jabs him with her elbow, but he still laughs. "I mean, I probably swam around when I was little, but I preferred having my own explorations when I became old enough to go off on my own. Unlike you, I've always thought that science is _fun._ "

"I guess everyone has their own ideas of excitement then." He concedes. "See, me and Jared, we would have competitions. Who could jump over the highest wave, who could stay on their boogie board the longest, who could swim the furthest away from shore." He breaks out into a wide grin. "I always won."

"I probably could have beaten you," she edges on, wearing a zealous look in her eyes.

"Please," he scoffs.

"Why," she says, "is it because I'm a girl?"

"Of course not. But," he flexes his arms, "I'm bigger. Always have been."

"Winning is a mental game, not a physical one." She challenges.

Booth moves closer with each word. The sun is hot, but the proximity to her is even hotter. Words are spiked with competitiveness and gazes blaze on, dark ones meeting ocean blues. He watches the way sentences slide over her bowed lips, pink like childhood cherry popsicles. It's hard not to look at her lips when at one time, he knew what they felt like, what they tasted like. Soft against his, drunkenly kissing bruises onto supple skin.

It's a feeling that has started to slip away with the years, a muddled memory of a past buried in poker chips and lost money.

But if he keeps leaning forward now, he'll relearn, lips meeting lips with the bite of salted air on the tongue.

Except his phone rings. It's Cam with an update with the case they're supposed to be working.

He begrudgingly answers. "Hello?"

Cam says to look for someone favoring right arm over the other, that the murderer left far more significant bruising with their right hand than their left, suggesting that they had recently hurt their left hand.

Booth quickly thanks her before hanging up.

Brennan asks: "What did Cam say?"

"To look for someone who recently hurt their left hand." He replies. "The murderer used a lot more force with their right hand than their left when they tried to strangle the victim. Cam thinks that the victim fought back during the attack and hurt the murderer's left hand before he died."

Her eyes scan the beach before landing fifteen feet away. She points to a man walking down the beach, his right hand cradling a splinted left.

"Just follow my lead." He says, standing from his seat.

"What if the man tries to avoid our questions?" She follows him. "I mean, we're still strangers to these people. Or what if he realizes we're working with the FBI?"

He smirks. "Bones, it's like _Baywatch_. Men can't focus on anything beyond the woman in the red bathing suit."

* * *

Their first suspect had been a bust. Their second one too. But Sweets' idea of going undercover had turned out to be the right call in the end as Booth and Brennan's game of gaining everyone's trust eventually them led to the killer: a college girl who happened to be a fellow lifeguard.

Maybe not a father like Booth had originally believed, but a murderer whose actions were based upon relationships and anger and jealousy no less.

The beach is empty as Booth flops down on the sand, feeling the cool grit against his back. Brennan reclines beside him, staring up at the starry night sky. The owner had told them, as a gift from her to them for their efforts in solving the case, that they could stay there for as long as they wanted.

Booth had tried not to notice the wink the owner gave him when she said that they could stay out all night if they desired.

At least their undercover work as a couple had been believable.

Because that's all it is.

Undercover.

Right?

"This was fun." She says it like it's only a secret for him to hear.

He's smiling again. It's hard not to smile around her. "Fun?"

Her pink lips are caught in her teeth, trying to fight the joy that's trapped in her partner's cheeks. "Yes."

Waves tumble up the shoreline, a rhythmic roar of life juxtaposed by the silent, still air. The tail ends of waves brush against Booth's heel, salty and cool to the touch. He looks over to Brennan.

"We never got to go into the water." He says.

"So?"

"We're wearing our suits, plus we have the entire beach to ourselves. It would be a waste if we didn't." He's already on his feet, reaching for her hand.

She latches onto his grip and pulls herself up. "Isn't it pretty cold?"

He laughs. "Who cares? Now," he crouches, "get onto my back."

She raises one eyebrow. "What?"

"I'm giving you a piggyback ride." He stares at her. "You _do_ know what a piggyback ride is, right?"

"Yes, I do. It's something that children do."

"Come on, Bones, children can't have _all_ the fun. Just hop on."

She shakes her head before letting out a sigh of defeat. She hooks her arms around his neck as he scoops her legs into his arms. Once secured into his arms, he runs into the waves. Brennan lets out a surprised shriek that quickly dissolves into a fit of laughter. The water is cold, but her skin is hot against his, and he keeps charging further into the ocean. She giggles into his ear, and he finds his heart falling in tandem with the crashing waves.

He tries not to think about how if they really were Tony and Roxie, how if they really were a couple, she would be pressed into his body, waves riding over their shoulders as they melted into each other's warm touch. Her fingers would slide down his back, and his hands would settle onto her hips, thumbs passing over the outer edge of her bathing suit that meets the sensitive skin of her thigh. It's an intoxicating thought, especially as the night rolls by with dark skies and bright stars as its backdrop.

But her laugh brings him back because, in the end, she's his best friend. Even as he wants, craves, desires, he still has a bond with her that most people would never get to experience.

"Booth!" She squeals as another surge of water rushes past them.

"So," he says, "is this the best beach experience you've ever had?"

"Well, it's certainly better than Russ destroying my sandcastle, but…" her voice takes on a teasing tone, "I don't know if it's the _best_ per se…"

"Bones, you know I can throw you into the water, right?" He begins to lean back, threatening to dunk her.

"Okay, okay!" She wheezes with laughter. "This is the best experience I've ever had. You're a good person to spend a day at the beach with."

He grins. "That's what I thought."

It's quiet for a minute, then: "When do you want to go home?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. "Is it bad if I say I don't want to? Or at least, not now."

She rests her chin onto his shoulder. "I don't want to either. It's… it's nice to get away from the world for a moment."

"Then, let's keep disappearing." He smiles. "The world doesn't need us tonight."

He keeps the last part to himself.

 _I only need you._

* * *

 **I finish school in a couple weeks, so yay, I'll have more time to write soon.**


	11. Hours of the Day

**This probably isn't the normal format of a typical one shot, but I thought it would be fun to look into what a day might be like for our favorite crime solving couple. Enjoy!**

* * *

Six a.m. is legs tangled in sheets and arms strewn over waists.

She can hear her phone buzzing, but he's pulling her back into his embrace, her back meeting his bare chest. His tired breaths are a morning melody in her ear, a soft in then out. She tries to reach again only to find her fingers intertwining with his. Resisting him is futile.

"Not yet," he sleepily smiles behind her ear, "a few more minutes please."

"The lab is calling," she tries to convince him.

"The lab can wait." He mumbles, nuzzling his nose into her hair.

" _Booth_ ," she says, near pleads, but her eyes are failing her as they begin to droop, "we can't stay in bed all day."

"I just said a few more minutes." He knows he'll win this battle. "A body has been brought in. The person is already dead. They can wait a little longer."

Her words start to feel heavy in her tired mouth. "Since when did I succumb to you so easily?"

"You always have." She can feel him smile. "You just hid it better before we became a couple."

"So you're bad for me then?" A giggle sweeps over her lips.

"The absolute worst," he says with a laugh and wraps his arms around her even tighter. He rolls onto his back, and her cheek meets his collarbone. He brings his lips to her skin, his kisses gentle and warm against her temple.

He begins to blur into tanned muscle and deep dimples under her fatigued vision. She tells herself: it's early. The body can wait.

For years, she had gotten used to cold sheets, minus the odd and few flings. Men came into her life at different times, their names only known when she mouthed them onto sharp shoulder blades and exposed throats. They were always satisfied urges that eventually left. She never wanted them to stay anyways. Sully might have been one exception, but he wasn't _the_ exception.

The exception is dreaming under the palm of her hands. His breaths are slowing, another melody for a new verse. Her head slips into the crevice of his neck, feeling her chest rise and fall in tandem with his. She really should be getting up and dragging him behind her. Maybe rip off their sheets and laugh at her husband's eyes widening at the sudden chill of the air. But she curls into him, holding on like he's her anchor.

Just for a few more minutes.

* * *

Ten a.m. is driving to the house of the first suspect and bouts of bickering.

She can hear him drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel while she skims over a case file. The morning sun is warm on her skin with the sky blue beyond blue and not a cloud in sight. Such ironic lives they lead: bring closure to the dead while the rest of the world continues at a bright, animated pace.

She looks over at him. He looks back at her and smiles with a flash of teeth.

The world, science tells her, is made up skies and oceans and mountains.

Her world places his hand over hers.

"It's a beautiful day," he muses, one hand steering while the other draws lazy circles across her skin with the pad of his thumb.

She looks past him. Children laugh as they run through sprinklers; adults leave hidden trails on sidewalks; everyone forgets what exists outside of white picket fences and manicured lawns for awhile. "It is."

"Max told me he was taking Christine to the park today," he says. "She's gonna love it."

"We should take her somewhere this weekend," she replies. "If we close this case quickly, we might get a couple days to ourselves."

"You? Not wanting to work?" He teases her, laughing. "Who are you and what have you done with my wife?"

Her eyes catch his. "Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Bones," he says, his tone more serious, "you know I would never want you to change, especially for me."

"Yes, I know." She affirms with the squeeze of her hand. "I think just having a family, specifically a husband and a daughter, makes me realize what's most important in life. It's Christine and you before work."

"I love our little family," he softly smiles. "Although sometimes, it would be nice for it to be only the two of us. We didn't spend much time as just a couple before we became parents."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you ever wish we didn't have to stop?" He asks, looking ahead at the stretch of asphalt. "That we could just keep driving?"

"Why would we do that?"

"An escape, Bones. The world seemed to be against us for so long. Us, together, driving away, doing whatever the hell we wanted, would be the perfect way to say F U."

They laugh until they reach the suspect's driveway. Someday they won't stop. Someday they'll keep going.

* * *

Noon is stealing fries from his plate.

The diner hits rush hour with waiters bustling about and plates being served. The air smells of salt and grease, perfectly All-American. She can feel his eyes narrowing from across the table as she snags a fry from his lunch.

"You could order your own fries, you know?" He retorts before biting into his hamburger.

"We're married, Booth." She takes another. "Married people share things."

"Please," he scoffs, "you've always done this."

"I'm just trying to help you leave room for some pie later."

He opens his mouth, pauses, then: "Why do you know me so well?"

"If I don't, who else will?"

He laughs. "You do have a point there, Bones."

She refocuses her attention on her salad. "Have you found any new leads for the case?"

He shakes his head. "We brought in the wife, but she has an alibi for the time of the murder. Sweets said he was going to start putting together a profile and call me with any updates he has. You?"

"Fracture lines on the occipital bone are most likely to be cause of death. Angela is currently recreating the crime scene to confirm our findings."'

He glances down at his phone. "When do you have to go back to the lab?"

"Not for another half an hour or so. Cam told me relax for once. We've had a large workload lately." She replies.

He smiles. "So, this is a date."

She laughs as his eyes only grow brighter. "I wouldn't call our typical lunch at the diner a _date_ , Booth. It's not very romantic."

"Who cares? I'll take any moment I can get." He picks up a fry of his own before she plucks it from his hand. "Hey!" He cries.

"What?" Her lips twitch into a teasing smirk. "Was that improper dating etiquette?"

"Why you—" and then his phone rings. Booth picks it up, albeit reluctantly. He sighs into the receiver. "Yes, Sweets?"

He listens for a few moments before hanging up. He looks at her sorrily. "I have to go back to the FBI. So much for our date, huh?"

"I'll make reservations for some place nice tomorrow night." She promises.

He walks over to her side of the table and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "Have I told you how amazing you are?"

"You tell me quite often."

"Well, listen again." His mouth softly meets hers again. "I'll see you later, Bones. Enjoy my fries for me."

She smiles. "Love you, too."

* * *

Six p.m. is not-so-secretive kisses in her office.

He says, "I missed you."

She rolls her eyes. "I saw you six hours ago."

He walks from her office's entrance to her side of the desk. His hand passes over hers as she slides another file into her bag. "The amount of time doesn't matter."

"Do you always miss me?" She asks it like it's a joke, but she looks up under her eyelashes, waiting for his response.

His eyes grow wide as if she's asking something incredulous. "Of course I do, Bones."

"We're together nearly all the time." She lets out a huff of laughter. "There's no need to miss me."

"But how could I not?" He corners her against her desk, hips bumping and mouths moving closer. His lips brush over hers, chaste and gone before she can respond, but it makes her feel like she's falling. For him, into him, all the same orbit.

When he pulls back, he's still only centimeters away. Her voice is caught in her throat. "Booth, what are you—"

"I miss hearing you correct me or go on one of your rational rambles. I miss catching the smell of your shampoo when you lean into me. I miss your lips on mine when you think no one is looking. So, yes, Bones, it's only been six hours, but the concept of time isn't enough for the concept of you."

She feels herself blushing, hot red on pale cheeks. All she can say is, "Wow."

"Did I really just leave Dr. Temperance Brennan speechless?" His smile extends for miles across his face. "Maybe I should be the author of the relationship. Clearly, I'm the one who's good with words here."

She kisses him hard. Hand-wrapped-around-tie _hard._ Mouths bruise, fingers fumble, breathes unify. She feels him draw in her waist before pushing him back and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She begins to walk out of her office but then spins around on her heels to find her husband red lipped and flushed.

"You can say that _after_ you become a New York Times' bestselling author."

He shakes his head with a laugh. "That's my girl."

* * *

Eleven p.m. is back where they began.

She lies under the covers while he trades in his FBI attire in favor for a pair of grey sweatpants. Their bed dips under his weight as he lies down onto his back. She's always been enamored by his large size. It's not that she's small, not that she needs to slip into his strength and hope to come out with armor of her own. It's the way he stands in spite of it all. Biceps are anatomy mixed with dragging her out from the ground after being buried alive. Hands are the vice for pens scribbling across paperwork and pulling the cool trigger that's left a dent in his index finger. Shoulders hold imaginary weights: dropping Epps, watching Vincent take his final breath, a multitude of lasts while he continues.

Of course, she has selfish reasons too.

It's the way her mouth chases shadows across his abdomen, feeling the twitch and flex of his toned muscles under her grazing kiss. Nimble fingers secure around her waist, arms bring her into his strong embrace, his jaw a sharp line her lips work to smooth. His physicality is an impressive working of the genetic lottery, and she holds the winning ticket.

But tonight she craves his body for the comfort it provides. She's never really considered herself to be a cuddler, but with him, she is unable to restrain herself. Her arm slings itself across his chest.

"I'm tired," he mumbles, tugging her closer.

"Even after sleeping in this morning?" She tries to tease, but it comes out like a yawn.

"It's exhausting catching the bad guys," he says. She looks up to see his eyelids fluttering shut.

"You talk like you're a superhero."

"I am. We are."

"Superheroes aren't real, Booth."

"Shh," she can hearing him smiling, "don't tell Christine that."

She says, "I'm not lying to our daughter."

He says, "It's not lying. It's letting our baby girl have an imagination."

"And what's that? Imagining her parents are like Superman and Wonder Woman?" She scoffs.

"Hey, you were the one who said that me and you looked like Wonder Woman and Clark Kent after a really bad date a few years ago."

She huffs out a laugh. "You remember that?"

"Of course I do, Bones." He presses his lips to her head. "It wasn't an everyday thing for you to joke about us being something beyond partners."

"And now we're married." She smiles at the word. "No more joking needed."

"Thank god for that."

"I don't see a need to thank God, Booth."

"Okay," he says, "I'll thank whoever brought me to you. Fate, the universe, the Jeffersonian—anyone."

His skin is warm against her cheek like she's young and basking in the heat of the midday sun. She tries to remember what she was before this. Before Booth had became her constant in life, her touchstone, her one in seven billion. It's a lonely thought: one of late nights at the lab because no one cared if she came home at a normal time, one of reaching out to imaginary hands that let her fall, one of existing but not living.

"Can you quiet down?" He asks, his voice a record scratched by sleep. "I can hear you thinking from over here."

She retorts with the click of her tongue. "No, you can't."

"Well, I can feel your forehead wrinkling against my chest."

"I was thinking..." she begins. "I was thinking about what my life was before you."

"You had a life before me?" His quip is cut short by a gentle slap to the ribs.

"Yes, but it wasn't this." She sighs onto his skin, warm breath on warmer skin. "Just never let me lose this, Booth. _Ever._ "

"Sorry to tell you this, Bones, but you're stuck with me forever." His arms tighten around her frame. Years ago, arms had been synonymous to chains, men pulling her in as she fought to let go. His are a road map calling her back home.

"Goodnight, Booth." She's said it so many times. As partners when cases brought them to face demons late into the night. As friends after a round of Thai food and celebratory beers. As lovers even though it was technically morning, but they didn't want to sleep because this, them, together, was finally real.

"Goodnight, Bones." He echoes.

Her eyes close. The world fades to black. End scene.

* * *

 **I don't know what to do add except I really miss Booth/Brennan and David/Emily. I've tried to fill the Bones-shaped hole in my heart with The X Files, but nothing really will compare to B &B and Demily sigh.**


	12. Real

**So, I saw this prompt on tumblr that was along the lines of "things you said that made me feel real", and I came up with this short read. It's set at the very beginning of season 5 when Booth is still recovering from his brain surgery.**

 **Also, I just wanted to say to the people who leave me reviews: you guys don't understand how much they mean to me as someone who is trying to turn their love for writing into a profession. Each review inspires me so much, so thank you, thank you, thank you!**

* * *

"I don't know who I am."

It's a quiet revelation in her apartment. She watches him, waiting, but his words stop where his eyes continue. He looks at her with lost wonder, a sad wanting to know who he is, who he was.

"What do you mean?" She asks, soft, unsure.

"My brain surgery," he begins, "it's left me so confused. I-I don't know what's real, what's me."

"You're Special Agent Seeley Booth." She leans into him, shoulders meeting in surrender. "You catch bad guys and eat pie afterwards."

He says it like it's a burden, sighs between syllables: "That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a special agent. I like pie." Brown eyes cast glances down towards tapping feet. "Is that all there really is to me?"

Her hand is on his thigh. She doesn't know how this happened, but everything feels more drawn in, more intimate. Not sexually, but in shared closeness. His hand rests on top of hers. "Of course not, Booth. You're a father. You like to wear striped socks and gaudy ties. You're very talented at hockey, too."

It's fact after fact. He looks displeased. "That I know. Or at least I'm starting to remember. But…"

"But what, Booth?"

"But what am I to you?"

"To me?"

"To you."

She sits in still contemplation for a moment, words unfound on her tongue. "You're…" another pause. "You're my partner."

"Well, I got that, Bones." He snarks, but her heavy glance heeds his next sentence.

"But it's more than our jobs. After spending over four years with you by my side, I consider you one of my closest friends."

His mouth curves into a soft smile like the bend of a private road only she knows the route to. "One of your closest friends?"

"Of course." She smiles back. "You're also the best knife thrower I've ever seen."

He tilts his head back, mouth open with laugher. "I think I'm the only knife thrower you've seen."

"Doesn't mean I can't think you're the best?"

"Do you even believe in someone being the best?"

She looks at him. His head falls forward to face her. She answers earnestly, "I believe in you."

He swallows at this, his Adam's apple catching in his throat. "Anything," he takes a breath, "anything else?"

"Hmm," she hums like she's thinking, but really she could write an entire novel about him. "You like to hug me even after I told you that you should stop it."

His arms start reaching towards her. "I'm not going to."

She pushes him back, her attempt of false annoyance cracking under her laughter. "I know. I know."

He drops back to his side of the couch, a daze of a smile on his lips. "Tell me more."

She laughs. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"It's not everyday you have someone tell you about their version of yourself."

She finds herself leaning into him, the sharp line of her jaw meeting the curve of his shoulder. His skin is warm under his shirt and licks at the coolness of her cheek. She tries to think of a time when she would curl away from him, watch his eyes flare with something of disappointment as she hides away. But as he looks down at her now, crinkles at the corner of his eyelids and unconcealed teeth behind an open-mouthed smile, she decides she likes these soon-to-be memories better.

"Well," she begins, "you have a really good heart." Her hand falls over the left side of his chest.

"I thought emotions came from your brain, not your heart." He chides her with a grin.

"Maybe." She says. "But your heart is different than mine. It feels too much for someone who has seen such terrible things. Instead of closing yourself off, you like to help others. You see the good in humanity. I find myself envious of your heart sometimes. I think I use my brain too much."

His lips are on her forehead. She closes her eyes, the heat of his kiss flooding her veins like sweet honey. "I don't think you use your brain too much, Bones." He replies. "I think you just feel and think in your own kind of way. And I like that way. It balances me out."

She giggles. "And your kind of thinking is what—your gut?"

"No brain tumor or surgery or _whatever_ could ever take my gut feeling away from me. Why, do you really wish that badly that I used my gut less?"

"All I'm saying is that being more rational isn't such a bad thing."

"Come on, Bones, if I was more like you, we wouldn't work together as well as we do." He points to himself. "Ying." Then pokes her just under her collarbone. "Yang."

"Yin." She corrects, but he ignores her.

A comfortable silence settles across her living room. She's never thought of silence being comfortable with another person. Silence has always been synonymous to being alone. Alone in her office, alone in the lab, alone in the bone room. So, so quiet. Until him. He's usually so loud. He bounces and laughs and moves like a falling comet, shining and wanting the world to see. But then there's these moments, these quiet seconds. This silence stretches across her like a blanket, and she's pulling him under the covers with her.

He speaks first: "Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"I told you I didn't know who I was, who I _am_ because of my brain surgery. I've been scared, you know? I don't want things to change. I don't want to be permanently messed up and unable to be an agent. But, I think, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter as long as I have you. As a partner, as a friend, I don't care. Life is made up of dreams and fears and the unknown, but you, Bones, _you,_ you're the one who makes me feel real." The air seems heavier, his words permeating the stillness.

"Booth," she says softly. She tries to look away from him, near overwhelmed and near consumed by what he's said, but she can't. Their connection is unexplainable, both tangible and not. This time it's physical, bound by gazes and something she almost wants to call love.

"But, first, can you help me remember one more thing?" He asks, just as softly.

"Of course, Booth."

His gentle expression breaks into a wide grin. "What Thai dish do I typically order? Because I'm _starving_ right now."

She laughs. Loud and full of joy. He starts laughing too, their shoulders bumping as she moves to grab her cell phone to place their order. He's still alive with delight after she hangs up the call, watching her with those wide, galaxy eyes. His arm is slung around her shoulders, and he pulls her into the crook of his side. She gravitates to the warmth and smiles.

He makes her feel real, too.

* * *

 **I hope I'm still doing B &B justice :)**


	13. I'm Her Husband

**I've been watching an obscene amount of The X Files lately, and Mulder & Scully end up in a hospital at least every few episodes. So, why not put Booth and Brennan through the same kind of angst? Sorry, not sorry!**

* * *

The hospital is white and bright and cold. It smells of cleanliness and sickness all at the same dizzying time. He can't keep track of his surroundings. Doctors rush in; doctors rush out. People cry; people nod; people accept diagnoses with faltered lips. He runs his fingers through his hair.

She's in the room at the end of the hall. He doesn't know how it happened: red blood and half masted eyes, the aftermath of a bullet. She'd promised she would stay behind him, that his gun was to take the lead. But he's unscathed, and she's here, the beep of machines acknowledging her existence instead of her rational voice.

It's two in the morning. Everyone else has gone home. He should be on his way home too. _Worrying and not sleeping won't help her, Seeley,_ Cam had told him with a comforting hand on his shoulder. But he can't bring his legs to move. She might wake up. She might wake up and ask for him through ragged breaths and weighed down limbs. If he leaves, he'll miss it.

The itch of the waiting room chair, he decides, isn't that bad anyways.

The shuffle of feet brings his head out of his hands. He looks up to see a nurse moving towards him. She's slight and mousy, her skin pale in the antiseptic lights. He stands up quickly, feeling his hands tremble like a warning for an oncoming earthquake.

"How is she?" He asks, not knowing if he really wants the answer. He licks his lips. They taste of iron, fearing and cold. "Is she okay?"

 _Is she going to make it?_

"She's stable," the nurse says, and his knees almost buckle in relief. It's a small victory, but he takes any win he can get.

"Can I see her?"

"Only family is allowed at this time." She looks at him. "Are you her husband?"

He's barely aware of the words rolling across his tongue: "Yes. I'm her husband." His eyes dart down towards his left ring finger. His left _ringless_ ring finger. "We just, uh, don't like to wear rings considering our line of work and all."

The nurse barely registers his nervous laugh. "Just follow me, sir."

Every step feels like an inch and a mile, a pull and a push back. He's not sure if he can face her like this, lying in a stiff bed and sleeping an unconscious sleep. The door to her room creaks open, and he hopes he'll push it open to a chiding Brennan, telling him to keep it down while she's trying to sleep. But her lips are set into a closed line.

His hand fumbles for hers. Her skin is a cool touch to his palm, a glacier sliding into warm waters. He barely registers that it is only him and Brennan in the room, the nurse long gone as patients dwindle in with the early morning hours. Tears begin to cloud his vision, then slip and fall down his cheek. He brings her hand to his mouth, feeling her quiet pulse under his lips. It tastes sweet of life.

He wonders what it was like for her when the ambulance took him away from the karaoke bar. He can't remember much: a sharp pain in his chest, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, her wide eyes. Her eyes. They were a sad, worrying blue, and he was drowning. Drowning at the idea of never seeing her again. He hopes she was fearful then, too. Fearful that death would swallow him in one dark end, a period to conclude the rambling sentence of an unfinished life.

He had learned she didn't want to attend his funeral. But then he went to his apartment that night. His bed smelled like sweet perfume and freshly slept in sheets. She had been there during his supposed demise. He has never told her that he knows, but what's a secret if it is to be shared?

"Bones," he whispers into her hand. "You gotta wake up, okay? The nurse says you're stable, but I don't want to get my hopes up. So please, please wake up."

He waits to feel a flinch, hear a groan, something. But she stays still. He pulls up a nearby chair and sits down, never fully letting go of her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm the guy with the gun. I'm supposed to protect you. I know that if you were awake, you'd tell me to shut up. You'd tell me that you don't need to be protected or saved. But I can't help it, Bones. Hospitals aren't places for you to ever be in."

He thinks, briefly, what her life would be if he never entered it.

She smiles a lot around him, laughs a lot too. She had once told him he makes her happy. It was a quiet whisper in June, the air warm, the sky black. He grinned back, saying she makes him happy too. They bumped shoulders and laughed over lukewarm beers, trying to differentiate stars from blinking skyscrapers. Everything, he had thought, this is everything.

But he knows not to confuse happiness with the air in her lungs and the thrum of pulsing blood. Is making her grin for a moment worth an entire life?

Without him, she would still be studying prehistoric anthropology. Angela would probably drag her out to bars to meet guys. She would mull over bones that did not come with the side effect of possible danger.

It's a lot of woulds, shoulds, possibilities. But what about the would nots?

She wouldn't celebrate solving cases with him at the diner. She wouldn't make fun of him for his lack of knowledge that she views as common sense. She wouldn't fix his tie or tell him corny jokes or attempt to ice skate for his sake.

His life is better with her. He wants to think her life is better with him.

Wake up, he wills in his mind. Please wake up and tell me I worried for nothing.

His cheek meets the scratch of her hospital sheets in surrender, still holding her hand, a lifeline. The machines stir and beep around him, murmur and sigh. She's here, and yet she's gone. He already misses her voice, her sharp elbow digging into his side at a new revelation, her brain working faster than his.

When he shuts his eyes, final tears spill. He buries his face into their intertwined fingers. The military taught him how to take a life, but it never taught him how to let go of another.

* * *

"Booth."

He's dreaming. He must be dreaming.

"Booth."

A finger skims over his bottom lip. He jerks upwards, his eyes meeting Brennan's. They're open, duller and dimmer like a patch of ice settling over a lake, but they're open. He almost cries.

"Bones!" He wants to hold all of her at once, but he settles for a reaffirming squeeze of her hand in his.

Her voice is quiet and raspy. "What's going on?"

He sucks in a breath. "You were shot. A bullet right near the heart. If it was an inch lower, you probably wouldn't have even made it to the hospital." He shakes at the thought, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Are you the only one here?" She asks.

He looks over at the clock in her room. Four a.m. An ungodly hour for the rest of the world. "Yeah. Everyone else left a couple of hours ago."

"How did you get in my room? I thought only—"

Brennan's cut off by a nurse walking through the doorway. This nurse is different, taller and more welcoming with a wide smile on her face. She pushes a loose strand of hair out of her face and says, "Dr. Brennan, it's great to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Brennan answers plainly. "It hurts to breathe somewhat, but considering what happened to me, it could be worse."

The nurse looks over Brennan's paperwork and latest vitals. "You're very lucky, Dr. Brennan." She closes the file, still smiling ever so widely. "But don't worry, you look like you are on your way to a safe recovery. The doctors here are the best of the best. Plus, it looks like you've got an extra bit of support." The nurse's eyes flicker towards Booth. "Your husband hasn't left your side the whole time."

Booth whips his head around to look at Brennan. Her eyes widen. She takes in a sharp breath. " _Husband_?"

The nurse spins on her heels without another word. Brennan musters up the best glare she can.

"You told them we're _married_?"

He swallows nervously, dropping her hand. "They told me only family was allowed to visit you, and I just… I needed to see you. So yes, I said that I was your husband." He tries to test out a joke. "Just call me Mr. Brennan."

The quip falls flat on the ears of an unreceptive audience. "Booth, you can't lie to the hospital staff like that."

"Bones," he says, low and serious, "I had to see you."

"Booth," she sighs, "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine now, but what about before? What about when I was sitting here, and the only way I knew you were alive was these goddamn machines?" His words flare like burning embers. He doesn't mean to sound so angry, so harsh, but this is Brennan. It always goes back to Brennan.

He says, jaw stern, "Sitting in the waiting room nearly killed me. I wasn't going to miss the first opportunity to see you. How do you not get that?"

"Not get that?" The orbit of the hospital stops spinning for a moment, their eyes locking in flames of unspoken care and fear. "I've sat in that waiting room multiple times because of you. I've sat in that waiting room and gotten told that you were dead. So don't you ever tell me I don't understand."

"Then let me lie, Bones." He says after a moment, his voice growing gentler. "Let me lie, so I can know you're okay." He leans over her bed and presses his forehead to hers. Her forehead is cool and slick under his. They've never been this close, but he feels as though he has knocked another wall down between them. "Let me lie because I need you. There's so many people in this world, Bones, but no one can replace you."

He looks at her, waiting, watching. Her rigid lines begin to smooth with each breath. The lowering of her shoulders, the twist in her softening lips. She whispers: "Thank you for being here."

"I'd never not be here, Bones."

"I know, Booth." Her thumb brushes over his lips, sealing her devotion. "I know."

* * *

Five years later:

 _He's my husband._

Her cries rattle off of the hospital walls, clanging like metal and drowning with roar of scuttling doctors. He's dying. He's dying, and they won't let her see him.

She slumps into a chair in the waiting room, briefly wondering if this is where he had sat all those years ago. All fibers of her being feel on edge, tense and ready to spring like a waiting predator. Her head is heavy in her hands. There's a new weight added to the world when he's teetering on the edge between life and death. She doesn't know how to maintain balance.

 _He's my husband._

They have played undercover multiple times. Dating, almost engaged, married. She had never thought of those aliases becoming her future. Now, he calls her his wife in the middle of the night, a tired breath against her ear. She says, I know, you don't have to keep telling me, and he replies, I want to, I won't ever stop. She calls him her husband less frequently, but there's a thrill in her veins every time she does, and she forgets why she once feared marriage so much.

 _He's my husband._

Hospitals smell too much like medicine and sickly skin. She works in a lab everyday, surrounded by bodies and bones, but it's different. It's home. There, finals have already been met, and justice is to be found. Here, it's unknown. It's upturn lips telling good news, and downcast eyes explaining tragedies without words. She looks around at nurses and doctors and waits for them to tell her what's going on. No one approaches her.

 _He's my husband._

The moment she sees him, she's being pulled away. Handcuffs hang off of his wrist, and she starts to scream. He's alive, he's breathing, but what's wrong, why can't she see him, what the hell is wrong? Men in black grab at her, and she tries to wrangle herself free. They're too strong. He's slipping away from her view.

 _He's my husband._

His lie about being married to her had worked years ago. She'd woken up to him asleep at her bedside, his cheeks wet and his hair mussed. This time, he wakes up, and she's going, she's going, she's gone.

* * *

 **I hope the shift from Booth seeing Brennan in the hospital to Brennan seeing Booth in the hospital (I'm referring to 9x24) wasn't too confusing lol.**


	14. Seven Months

**I'm a sucker for 5x22/6x01 fics where Booth and Brennan get together, so since I've already written one for 5x22 (it's called "Stay" if you haven't read it), here's a quick little AU for 6x01. It's short but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless.**

* * *

Seven months is a long time, she thinks.

It's not an entire year, but it's no longer a minute, a moment, a mere passing of time. Her hair is different now, shorter with bangs brushing against her forehead. She swears she can still feel the Maluku sun hitting the back of her neck even while standing in the chill of Washington D.C. It's an invisible tattoo of her time away from what she's known so steadily for the past five years. Away from home, work, family, friends.

Away from him.

She tastes change in the air like salt. Distance and time apart does that: molds a new world when you aren't looking. But, she hopes in a fit of irrationality, maybe he will defy natural law and stay constant.

When she had saw him last, his hand felt heavy in hers. Or perhaps it was his stare. He kept looking back, eyes dark and far. She didn't move one step closer, only watched. He walked away. She let him.

She's never known the word regret before. Everything she does is with reason, with purpose. Regret is a byproduct of fear, and life's too short to not be fearless.

Except if it's snakes.

But that's only when he's around to be held onto.

She had thought about the word regret when her plane took off. Regret about leaving her job for an exploration that didn't have a definite outcome. Regret about saying goodbye to people that she acted as a center for, a guiding point. Regret about letting him go because she couldn't give him what he wanted.

Regret had faded under the stiff air and endless jungles, a sense of remembrance of her past work washing over her. Knees dusted with dirt and her face streaked with sweat, she had forgotten the day of the week and the occasional month as she submerged herself into possible anthropology breakthroughs. But, at night, regret came back in the form of missing. Daisy was there, bright eyed and perked up with the constant need to impress and outperform.

She still wasn't Brennan's partner.

Brennan would find herself looking up at the stars and wondering if Booth saw the same ones too. It had been a comforting thought: to be sharing a moment together even if they weren't in the same vicinity. But maybe he'd look up and only see constellations when she'd be searching for a brightness like the kind trapped in his eyes.

Seven months is a long time when you don't know what you're returning too.

When he steps into her view, she's still taken aback by his military uniform. It's another reminder of what she had pushed him towards: war and terror and death looking onward. But when he breaks out into a wide smile, she forgets it all.

Here's her constant: his smile, his arms tightening around her back, his warm and tanned skin, his nickname for her like a call to come home.

"Booth," she breathes into his neck, and she realizes how little she had said his name when they were apart. It's foreign to her tongue. Sweet, too.

"Bones," he murmurs so gently, she only pulls him closer, wanting to hear what she had missed.

He lets go first, his fingers skimming over her hips as she lifts her chin from his shoulder. He's broader than she remembers, more muscled from the weight of Afghanistan. She feels tempted to run her fingers through his hair, feel the short clip of army regulated razors.

She keeps her hands in front of her.

"I missed you," he says with heavy honesty. She thinks she might drown.

"I missed you too." It's a cold hard fact for a calculated scientist. She's missed him so much; standing with him is like remembering how to breathe again. She asks: "How was Afghanistan?"

"Hot," he replies and they both laugh.

"Same in Maluku."

"It was also," he licks his lips, recalling or maybe trying to forget, "lonely."

She tilts her head. "Lonely? But I thought you were surrounded by others, training them."

"Loneliness isn't the same as being completely alone, Bones." He sucks in a tight breath, and she feels herself wobble with the wind. "Loneliness is when you're not with the one person you want to be with the most."

"So you didn't …" she studies him. His eyes stare blankly back her like accidental smudges of ink on paper. "You didn't …?"

"Meet someone?" He asks.

She nods.

"No," he says into the night sky, looking back up at the stars. They look at the same stars tonight, no distance, no guessing about how the other is. "It didn't seem right. You?"

"Besides a couple run-ins with some locals that were far from friendly," a light laugh stumbles across her lips, "it was just Ms. Wick and I out there. But, it's not like I was looking for anyone in the first place."

"So..." he says.

"So..." she echos.

She looks at him. He takes a step back. She wonders briefly why, but then it comes flooding back. Him kissing her, her pushing him back. It had been a shift in their cosmic orbit. Tonight, she thinks, they might realign.

She moves forward, her lips slowly brushing his. His mouth is warm, yet stiff, still tasting the bitterness of bad memories on her skin. She leans in closer, sealing her intentions, and feels his hands meet her waist as her arms snake around his neck. He's not that much taller than her, but when he bends ever so slightly, lips moving with want and desire, she's thankful for those few inches.

"What changed?" He asks after a minute. "Why now? Why not before?"

Her thumbs run over his cheeks. "Because I realized how much I needed you. I'm able to survive without you, Booth, but I don't thrive. It was difficult to be Maluku, knowing what I left behind."

"Is this permanent?" His voice is low, unsure. "I mean, you're not going to go back after we're done helping Cam, right?"

She shakes her head. "We didn't find anything within those seven months. It's not worth going back. Especially if it means risking this," she presses her forehead to his, "risking the life that I really want."

He tips her chin up with his index finger and fits his mouth to hers. She kisses him like he's oxygen, pulling him towards her until their bodies are flush, near one.

His smile is wide and blinding when she tilts her head back and looks at him. He says, "Welcome home, Bones."

She intertwines her fingers with his, smiling.

Seven months isn't that long of a time when you realize what you've been waiting for.

* * *

 **Sorry for slacking with updates lately. I'm in need of a good brainstorming session.**


	15. Protocol

**I swear I haven't abandoned this fic. Somehow I've become even busier despite it being summer vacation. Anyways, I'm not entirely sure what this story is except fluff, fluff, and more fluff. Nothing like tooth-rotting B &B.**

* * *

"I told you. You should have brought another pair of clothing."

Booth throws his dirty shirt and pair of jeans into the washing machine. "It's not like I anticipated to slip into some mud like that."

Brennan raises her right eyebrow. "You chased after a suspect in a forest while it was raining. What _did_ you expect?"

He fishes a couple of quarters out of his pocket. "For my years of being a ranger to not fail me quite so badly."

Deputy Director Stark had sent them up to Pennsylvania for a particularly gruesome case—one that was far too disturbing for the local police and FBI field office to tackle. One four hour long drive later complete with arguing over the radio and whose directions were correct, and they'd landed themselves in the sleepy town of Benton. There were a smattering of homes, old stores, cracked sidewalks. Only one motel resided in the area with the electric buzz of its neon sign and three cars in the parking lot. It was quiet, so quiet, and so not the place for a horrifying murder to occur.

Brennan boosts herself up onto the adjacent machine, swinging her feet back and forth. The laundromat is still with the night as even the owner disappears into the back, her walk a bored shuffle. Brennan itches to get out of her work attire, envious of Booth in only a white tee and sweatpants that he found in the trunk of his SUV. She taps her fingers against the cold, white metal, waiting.

"It's stupid that the Bureau is making us sleep in different rooms," Booth complains, breaking the silence. "They know we're a couple after all."

"It's protocol, Booth," she says plainly. "Male and female agents sleep in separate motel rooms during investigations."

"It's still stupid." He slams the laundry machine's door shut and it begins to rumble. "What do they think we're going to do—keep each other up all night doing…?" His right eyebrow hitches upwards, a smirk on his lips.

She rolls her eyes. "It's all about maintaining professionalism and representing the federal government, Booth. We're following the rules."

"So, you're not going to sneak out of your room and into mine?" He dramatically pouts. "I had some plans for us to take advantage of with us being sans child right now."

This time, it's her cocking an eyebrow. "You mean...?"

"Watching the Flyers game without being uninterrupted, of course!" He grins as he watches her face fall, lips pressed into a straight line. "Tsk, tsk, Doctor Brennan, what about 'maintaining professionalism'? Get your mind out of the gutter."

She looks at him, confused. "My mind is in my skull, not the gutter."

He shakes his head. "Never mind."

The laundromat is still empty. Everything seems empty: quiet streets, dimly lit houses, people turning in before nine. This town makes Booth look like a city, his animated chatter like cars and pedestrians and blinking lights. But, she thinks, even in the brightest of cities, she would be able to spot him before anything else.

Brennan unhooks her formerly crossed ankles and reaches for Booth's shirt. She grabs a fistful of the cotton tee and pulls him into the space between her legs. He lightly stumbles, his teeth knocking against hers as they laugh into their kiss.

"I thought you hated PDA." Her eyes are closed, but she can hear him smiling.

"There's no one here," she says into another press of their lips. "This is place is…"

"A ghost town?" He offers.

"Yes, a ghost town." She clarifies, "That is if ghosts existed after all. Which they don't."

The owner of the the laundromat, a short, tired looking woman reappears after a few minutes. Brennan ducks her head back, loosening her grip on Booth's shirt. He clears his throat nonchalantly as he steps away, but the evidence is all there: wrinkled tee, swollen lips, a dazed look in his eyes.

"I should go back to my room," Brennan says, clearing the air.

"You're not going to keep me company?" His lower lip settles into a pout.

"Why?" She asks. "What do you want me to do?"

He hoists himself up onto the washing machine next to her, casting a glance towards the owner who is more engrossed by her phone than the two FBI agents who are now bumping shoulders. He smiles. "Tell me a story."

"A story?"

"We've got at least an hour to kill since I need to put my clothes in the dryer too."

Her forehead crinkles as she thinks before breaking out into a grin. He leans in close, ready to drink up her words like milk and honey.

"So once in college…"

* * *

They part ways a couple hours later, kissing each other for a second too long before disappearing into their rooms and falling into restless sleeps.

Booth wakes up to the creak of a door being opened. His eyes dart towards the entrance into his motel room before remembering the door that adjoined his room to Brennan's. A slit of moonlight shining through the blinds illuminate Brennan's lean but curvy frame as she steps into view. He sits up.

"Sorry for waking you," she whispers.

"No," he rubs at his eyes before looking at the alarm clock perched on the bedside table. It reads 3:38 am. "It's fine."

She slides down next to him. He asks: "Is something wrong?"

She shakes her head and then replies, "No... but you were right."

"Right about what?"

"That it's stupid that the FBI is making us stay in different rooms."

He breaks out into a wide smile, one that rivals the brightness of the moon. "Are you admitting that you miss me, Bones?"

An embarrassed laugh stumbles over her lips. " _Booth_."

"It's okay," he says. He brings his face to the crook of her neck, breathing out, "I missed you, too."

She pulls his face up to hers, his jaw sturdy and sharp in her delicate, precise fingertips. The taste of his mouth is warm, comfortable. She's kissed him many times now, too many times to be counted, but she knows she'll never grow tired of how he'll taste like coffee and sugary cereal in the morning, like salty fries during lunch, like mint toothpaste in the waning hours of the night. Science tells her people can fall out of love as quickly as they fall in. But she didn't suddenly fall in love with Booth. It had been culminating, something that stirred and molded with the occasional crumble until she looked at him one day and knew he was different. Knew that he wasn't simply just a colleague or friend, but someone that changed her idea of love by presenting her with the kind that challenged the universe's inability to have a forever.

He breaks the kiss and leans back, his hand patting the space next to him. She lays next to him, curling into the scratchy motel sheets. His thumb slips under her shirt and rubs circles along her hip bone.

"I love you, Bones." He says into the stiff air.

"That was random." She replies plainly.

"Do I need a reason to say it?"

She hums. "Perhaps not."

He kisses her. It's lazy and soft in the morning hours, sleepiness still nipping at their nerve endings. "Thanks for coming over," he murmurs into the almost immeasurable gap between their lips. "Even if it's against the rules."

She smiles. "There's no one I'd rather break protocol with."

* * *

 **So I wonder how long we're gonna have to wait for a Bones revival cause ... I'm already so down for one. (In all serious, I'm guessing it would be like a five year wait considering David's new show, and they really do deserve a break after twelve years of working nonstop).**


	16. Birthdays

**This is a bit ... rusty. But hopefully, you will enjoy it :)**

* * *

They had only been working together for a few months by the time Booth's birthday rolled around.

"So," Angela asks, leaning back in her chair with a raised eyebrow, "are you going to get him something?"

Brennan considers for a moment, then nods. "We work together almost every day. I assume he would appreciate the gesture."

Angela's lips play into a coy smile that Brennan chooses to ignore. "You have a gift in mind?"

Brennan shakes her head. "I know he likes hockey and that he has a gambling problem. Beyond that, not much else. For such an extroverted man, he is quite reserved about his past and his life outside of work."

"I'm sure he's not even expecting a present in the first place," Angela says. "I think he would enjoy anything you got him."

After a few days of contemplation, Brennan had settled on a tie, one that was gaudy enough to be considered 'Boothy' but not gaudy enough for his boss to send him home for not following the dress code. She smooths her thumb over the sleek wrapping paper as she sits in his office, waiting for him, briefly wondering why she feels so nervous.

He walks in, almost striding as he breaks out into a smile at the sight of his partner. "Hey, Bones." Her nose scrunches; she's still not used to his nickname for her yet. "What are you doing here?"

She stands up and shoves the wrapped box into his chest, more aggressively than she had intended. "Happy birthday, Booth."

His eyes flare bright with surprise before melting into a soft warmth, his smile growing. She's not sure how he can smile that wide, but he does. And, somewhere, buried at the back of her brain, she knows he only smiles this wide around her. She fights off the blush that's creeping up her neck, focusing on the cadence of his voice instead.

He says: "Bones," tone still laced with shock, "you didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did." She states, her words stark and void of any feelings she may harbor. This is casual, she reminds herself. It's her being kind. "I'm your partner."

"And my friend." He says as he begins to unwrap the box, missing her eyes widen slightly and jaw falter.

She isn't the type to consider people friends. After all, she only has one: Angela. And she simply considers Angela her friend because Angela calls Brennan her friend too. Beyond that, relationships are limited to coworkers, acquaintances, respected colleagues in the anthropology field.

Now she has another friend. Her pulse picks up a beat.

Booth pulls back the lid, revealing the tie. He picks it up to inspect it better before turning to look at Brennan. He's grinning again, and it almost appears as if he wants to pull her into a hug. Instead, he gives her a small squeeze of the arm and warmly says, "Thanks, Bones. I love it."

"You're welcome, Booth." She finds herself smiling. "So, did you have a good birthday?"

He unties the tie he was originally wearing and starts putting on the one she got him. "Better than good."

* * *

After four years of friendship—dare she say best friendship—there had not been much that Brennan didn't know about Booth, and vice versa despite her efforts to stay well-guarded. Although neither weren't the types to reveal everything to each other, things tended to slip out during late nights over Thai food and beer. But they also knew that the other would keep these private moments to themselves, thus strengthening their bond.

The one thing, however, that Booth keeps well publicized is his love for hockey. His name is near synonymous with being a Flyers' fan. It had seemed only common sense to Brennan to give him a gift that encompassed his prideful obsession.

"Bones," Booth laughs, "where are you taking me?"

Brennan keeps her hands over Booth's eyes, leading him with the nudges of her body pressed tightly to his. She moves one hand to cover his entire view as she fumbles for the key in her pocket before leaning around him to unlock the door. With the kick of her foot, the door swings open. She pulls back her remaining hand and tells him to open his eyes.

"Bones," he asks, looking at the empty rink, "what is this?"

"Happy birthday, Booth." She says, watching his look of surprise turn into one of joy. "I rented out the entire rink for you tonight."

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he breams. "Wow, Bones, I… I don't know what to say. I mean, how did you even pull this off?"

She shrugs. "I gave the owners an offer they couldn't refuse." She brushes past him as they near the rink. "I'll be right back. I need to grab something."

Booth props himself up against a glass panel looking onto the sleek ice. Brennan reappears holding a neatly wrapped box in one hand and a hockey stick with a bow on it in the other. Booth is beyond smiling at this moment; he's nearly glowing. And Brennan can't help but grin at her being the reason for it.

Booth tears at the gift and soon unveils a pair of hockey skates— _expensive_ hockey states. He's practically flabbergasted, unsure of how to handle this showering of presents.

"Bones," he weakly protests, "this is all too much."

"With the sales if my most recent book, it's barely a dent in my wallet, Booth." She reassures, watching his eyes perk up a little. "Now put on your skates and try out the stick. The man at the store I got them from said they were the best that money could buy."

Somehow, Booth manages to coerce Brennan into skating along with him. She's improved somewhat since the first time he ever took her; she doesn't fall when she first steps onto the ice nor when she shakily begins to glide her way towards Booth. She grabs onto his solid arm when she reaches his side, giving her legs a break from their wobbling. But when he turns and looks at her with soft pride, her legs teeter the line of standing straight or giving out completely.

"Look at you," he says, smiling, "you're really getting the hang of it."

She's still gripping tightly onto his arm. "Maybe."

"Now it's time to take it to the next time." His eyes flicker towards the hockey stick in his opposing hand. "I'm gonna teach you how to take a shot."

"I'm fine with just skating," she assures.

He ignores her. "C'mon, Bones, it'll be fun."

"Booth _..."_

He works his way out of grasp on him and places the stick in her hands instead. He gently pushes her fingers into the correct holding position. The air of the rink is cold—her pink cheeks being the proof of it—but his fingers are warm against hers and she finds herself leaning against his chest as his body molds around her.

His hands settle in line with hers. "Now," he says, "we're going to bring the stick back and transfer our weight to our back foot." The stick begins to cock back as they lean away. He continues: "Then we're going to slightly rotate our wrists toward the direction we want to shoot the puck, transfer our weight forward, and follow through."

He leads the motion as the stick makes contact with the puck in front of Brennan. The puck smoothly slides down the ice. She finds herself smiling when she barely turns her head to look at him, ignoring how their cheeks are near touching, his lips almost making contact with her cool skin.

"See," he breathes out, "it's not hard at all."

He skates away to pick up the puck. She brings her fingers up to her cheek, feeling the heat of where he was only seconds ago. He's like a fire, flames licking against her skin. But somehow she's not burning. She's basking in the warmth.

It's the fifth time that they're shooting the puck together that Booth starts going on a ramble about how much she'd love hockey if she went to a Flyers game with him. How she would enjoy the team aspect of it, the physics behind shooting a wrist shot versus a slap shot, the excitement you can feel when sitting in the crowd.

She hears him expel a breath, one leading to another tangent when she says, "Shut up, Booth. I'm trying to play hockey."

He softly laughs, then asks, "Can I say one last thing?"

"Yes."

He smiles against her earlobe, whispering, "Thank you."

* * *

It's the first time they've celebrated his birthday as a married couple.

She gets up early to make a blueberry pie, deciding that even though pie is not a breakfast item, he deserves the treat. The kitchen smells like blueberries and cinnamon and nutmeg when he traipses downstairs, already wearing his infamous wide smile.

"I was disappointed to wake up by myself this morning," he says, "but whatever you're baking smells _good_."

Brennan's response is cut off by the beep of the oven. She pulls out the pie and places it on the kitchen island right in front of Booth. His eyes widen and he looks about five seconds away from salivating.

"I made you a blueberry pie for breakfast." She gestures to the dish.

" _For breakfast_?" He asks, his eyes still stuck on the pie as though if he looks away, it will disappear.

"It's your birthday." She circles around the counter top and presses a light kiss to his cheek. "Seems only right to indulge you a little bit."

He draws her into his arms, kissing her soundly on the lips. "Thank you for the gift."

She pulls herself back and shakes her head. "That's not your gift."

"No?"

"No."

Brennan walks out of the kitchen and picks up a pile of papers off of the coffee table in their living. She walks back and places it down on his lap.

He gives her a confused look. "This is the manuscript of your latest book."

She nods. "It is."

He still looks at her strangely, unsure of what to make of it.

She says, "Read the dedication."

Since the beginning of their partnership, she's dedicated each book she's written to Booth. Occasionally she had added in Angela when Angela helped Brennan out with some love scenes. But typically she solely dedicated her novels to Booth, seeing that he was her partner and deserved the acknowledgment.

Her dedications never were particularly personal or overly sentimental: she tended to thank Booth as her friend and partner and kept it at that. No stranger reading her book needed to know the true extent of how much Booth meant to her. The book was there was entertainment, not as a look into Brennan's life and inner feelings.

Booth gently peels back the title page and lands on the dedication. His fingers smooth over the printed text as he reads out loud: "To my husband, who has taught me that just because something isn't rational, it doesn't mean it isn't worth it. I will love you always."

His breath hitches. She tries to meet his eyes, but he keeps staring down at the dedication, scanning it over and over again.

"So," she says, slowly, "what do you think?"

When he finally looks at her, his brown eyes have a glossy sheen of unshed tears. And then suddenly, she's in his embrace; her home. His arms are tight around her back as his chin rests on her shoulder. He softly murmurs, "This is the best gift I've ever received."

"Better than when I got you all that hockey gear years ago?" She asks.

"Better than that."

She teases. "Or how about the first gift I ever got you? That blue tie you still wear?"

He laughs, "Better than that, too."

He releases her from his embrace and looks her right in her eyes. She doesn't think she's ever had someone look at her with such intensity, with such adoration, with such love. His hands cradle her face, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones.

Her voice strains against her throat, raw from the emotion that sits at every nerve ending. "Happy birthday, Booth."

He softly presses his lips to her, his fingers still supporting her jaw. Her hands move over his chest, his rib cage, wanting to hold all of him at once.

His mouth is only a breath away when he says, "I will always love you, too."

* * *

 **I kind of want to do a version of this fic but with Booth giving Brennan presents. We shall see.**


End file.
